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IPEIOE CIBIsrTS. 




BssNEW YOKK 


3, Ko. 1S4. Jan«~14,T8^. AnnaaVSubstTi^^iou/taS.O^^^ 

THE 

Ladies Lindores 


MRS. OLIPHANT 


CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,’' Etk, 


^ ^ .- V^EY3TREEr 







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THE LADIES 


LINDQRES 


A NOVEL.- 



> 

■■ 




(T® 


MRS. OLIPHANT, 

n 

AUTHOR OF 


} 



“THE CHROXICLES OF CARLINGFORD,” “THE GREATEST HEIRESS 
IN ENGLAND,” ‘‘ PHCEBE, JUNIOR,’’ ‘‘INNOCENT,” 

“ BROWNLOWS,” “ THE MINISTER’S 
. WIFE,” ETC. 









NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street. 

V' - 

' r: - , : , : ' 'v'-, ' 





THE LADIES LINDORES. 


CHAPTER 1. 

The mansion-house of Dalrulzian stands on the lower slope of a 
hill, which is crowned with a plantation of Scotch firs. The rugged 
outline of this wood, and the close-tufted mass of the tree-tops, 
stand out against the pale east, and protect the house below and the 
policy,” as the surrounding grounds are called in Scotland ; so 
that, though all the winds are sharp in that northern county, the 
sharpest of all is tempered. The house itself is backed by lighter 
foliage — a feathery grove of birches, a great old ash or two, and 
some tolerably well-grown but less poetical elms. It is a house of 
distinctively local character, with the curious, peaked, and graduated 
gables peculiar to Scotch rural architecture, and thick walls of the 
roughest stone, washed with a weather-stained coat of yellow-white. 
Two wings, each presenting a gabled end to the avenue, and a sturdy 
block of buildings retired between them — all strong, securely built, 
as if hewn out of the rock — formed the homely house. It had little 
of the beauty which a building of no greater pretensions would prob- 
ably have had in England. Below the wings and in front of the hall 
door, with its two broad, flat stone steps, there was nothing better 
than a gravelled square, somewhat mossy in the corners, and marked 
^ by the trace of wheels ; but round the south wing there swept a sort 
of terrace, known by no more dignified name than that of ‘‘The 
Walk,” from which the ground sloped downward, broken at a lower 
level by the formal little parterres of an old-fashioned flower-garden. 
The view from the Walk was of no very striking beauty, but it had 
the charm of breadth and distance — a soft sweep of undulating coun- 
try, with an occasional glimpse of a lively trout-stream gleaming 
here and there out of its covert of crags and trees, and a great, 
varied, and ever-changing world of sky — not a prospect which cap- 
tivated a stranger, but one which, growing familiar day by day and 
year by year, was henceforth missed like something out of their lives 
by the people who, being used to it, had learned to love that silent 
companionship of nature. It was the sort of view which a man 
pauses not to look at but to see, even when he is pacing up and 
down his library thinking of John Thomson’s demand for farm im- 


4 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


provements, or, heavier thoughts, about his balance at his banker’s ; 
and which solaces the eyes of a tired woman, giving them rest and 
refreshment through all the vicissitudes of life. People sought it in- 
stinctively in moods of reflection, in moments of watching, at morn- 
ing and at twilight, whenever any change was going on in that great 
exhaustless atmosphere, bounded by nothing but the pale distance 
of the round horizon — and when was it that there was no change in 
that atmosphere ? — clouds drifting, shadows flying, gleams of light 
like sudden revelations affording new knowledge of earth and heaven. 

On the day on which the reader is asked first to visit this house 
of Dalrulzian, great things were happening in it. It was the end of 
one reghne and the beginning of another. The master of the house, 
a young man who had been brought up at a distance, was coming 
home, and the family which had lived in it for years was taking its 
leave of the place. 

The last spot which they visited and on which they lingered was 
the Walk. When the packing was over, and the final remnants 
gathered up, the rooms left in that melancholy bareness into which 
rooms relapse when the prettinesses and familiarities of habitation 
have been swept away, the remaining members of the family came 
out with pensive faces, and stood together gazing somewhat wistfully 
upon the familiar scene. They had looked on many that were more 
fair. They were going to a landscape of greater beauty farther south 
— brighter, richer, warmer in foliage and natural wealth ; but all this 
did not keep a certain melancholy out of their eyes. The younger of 
the party, Nora Barrington, cried a little, her lip quivering, a big 
tear or two running over. ‘‘It is foolish to feel it so much,” her 
mother said. “ How is it one feels it so much ? I did not admire 
Dalrulzian at all when we came.” 

“ Out of perversity,” said her husband ; but he did not smile 
even at the cleverness of his own remark. 

Nora regarded her father with a sort of tender rage. “It is all 
very well for you,” she said ; “ one place is the same as another to 
you. But I was such a little thing when we came here. To you it is 
one place among many ; to me it is home.” 

“If you take it so seriously, Nora, we shall have you making up 
to young Erskine for the love of his house.” 

“ Edward ! ” cried Mrs. Barrington, in a tone of reproof. “ I 
feel disposed to cry too. We have had a great many happy days in 
it. But don’t let old Rolls see you crying, Nora. Here he is coming 
to say good-bye. When do you expect Mr. Erskine, Rolls ? You 
must tell him we were sorry not to see him ; but he will prefer to 
find his house free when he returns. I hope he will be as happy at 
Dalrulzian as we have been since we came here.” 

“Wherefore would he no be happy, mem? He is young and 
weel off ; and you’ll no forget it’s his own house.” 

Rolls had stepped out from one of the windows to take farewell 
of the family, whom he was sorry to lose yet anxious to get rid of. 
There was in him the satisfied air of the man who remains in posses- 
sion, and whose habits are unaffected by the coming and going Oi 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


5 


ephemeral beings such as tenants. The Barringtons had been at 
Dalrulzian for more than a dozen years ; but what was that to the 
old servant, who had seen them arrive and saw them go away with 
the same imperturbable aspect ? He stood relieved against the wall 
in his well- brushed black coat, concealing a little emotion under a 
watchful air of expectancy just touched with impatience. Rolls had 
condescended more or less to the English family all the time they 
had been there, and he was keeping up his r6le to the last, anxious 
that they should perceive how much he wanted to see them off the 
premises. Mrs. Barrington, who liked everybody to like her, was 
vexed by this little demonstration of indifference ; but the colonel 
laughed. ‘‘ I hope Mr. Erskine will give you satisfaction/’ he said. 

Come, Nora, you must not take root in the Walk. Don’t you see 
that Rolls wishes us away ? ” 

‘‘ Dear old Walk ! ” cried Nora ; dear Dalrulzian ! ” She rolled 
the r in the name, and turned the z into a j/ (which is the right way of 
pronouncing it), as if she had been to the manner born ; and though 
an English young lady, had as pretty a fragrance of Northern Scot- 
land in her voice as could be desired. Rolls did not trust himself 
to look at this pretty figure lingering, drying wet eyes, until she 
turned round upon him suddenly, holding out her hands : The 
moment we are off, before we are down the avenue, you will be 
wishing us back,” she cried, with vehemence ; ‘‘you can’t deceive 
me ! You would like to cry too, if you were not ashamed,” said the 
girl, with a smile and a sob, shaking the two half-unwilling hands 
she had seized. 

“ Me cry ! I’ve never done that since I came to man’s estate,” 
cried Rolls, indignantly, but after a suspicious pause. “As for 
wishing you back. Miss Nora, wishing you were never to go, wishing 
you would grow to the Walk, as the cornel says^ — ” This was so 
much from such a speaker that he turned, and added in a changed 
tone, “You’ll have grand weather for your journey, cornel. But you 
must mind the twa ferries, and no be late starting”— a sudden re- 
minder which broke up the little group, and made an end of the 
scene of leave-taking. It was the farewell volley of friendly ani- 
»mosity with which Rolls put a stop to his own perverse inclination 
to be soft-hearted over the departure of the English tenants. “ He 
could not let us go without that parting shot,” the “cornel” said, as 
he put his wife into the jingling “ coach ” from the station, which, 
every better vehicle having been sent off beforehand, was all that re- 
mained to carry them away. 

The Barringtons, during their residence at Dalrulzian, had been 
received into the very heart of the rural society, in which at first 
there had sprung up a half-grudge against the almost unknown mas- 
ter of the place, whose coming was to deprive them of a family group 
so pleasant and so bright. The tenants themselves, though their 
turn was over, felt instinctively as if they were expelled for the bene- 
fit of our intruder, and entertained this grudge warmly. “ Mr. Ers- 
kine might just as well have stayed away,” Nora said. “ He can’t 
care about it as we do.’^ 


6 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


Her mother laughed and chid, and shared the sentiment. ‘‘But 
then it’s ‘ his ain place,’ as old Rolls says.” 

“ And I dare say he thinks there is twice as much shooting,” said 
the colonel, complacently : “I did, when we came. He’ll be disap- 
pointed, you’ll see.” This gave him a faint sort of satisfaction. 

In Nora’s mind there was a different consolation, which yet was 
not a consolation, but a mixture of expectancy and curiosity, and 
that attraction which surrounds an unconscious enemy. She was 
going to make acquaintance with this supplanter, this innocent foe, * 
who was turning them out of their home because it was his home — 
the most legitimate reason. She was about to pay a series of visits 
in the country to the various neighbors, who were all fond of her and 
reluctant to part with her. Perhaps her mother had some idea of 
the vague scheme of match-making which had sprung up in some 
minds — a plan to bring the young people together ; for what could 
be more suitable than a match between John Erskine, the young 
master of Dalrulzian, who knew nothing about his native county, 
and Nora Barrington, who was its adopted child, and loved the old 
house as much as if she had been born in it? Mrs. Barrington, per- 
haps, was not quite unconscious of this plan, though not a word had 
been said by any of these innocent plotters. For, indeed, what 
manner of man young Erskine was, or whether he was worthy of 
Nora, or in the least likely to please her, were things altogether un- 
known to the county, where he had not been seen for the last dozen 
years. 

Anyhow, he was coming as fast as the railway could carry him, 
while Nora took leave of her parents at the station. The young man 
then on his way was not even aware of her existence, though she 
knew all about him — or rather about his antecedents ; for about 
John Erskine himself no one in the neighborhood had much infor- 
mation. He had not set foot in the county since he was a boy of 
tender years and unformed character, whose life had been swallowed 
up in that of an alien family, of pursuits and ideas far separated from 
those of his native place. 

It almost seemed, indeed, as if it were far from a happy arrange- 
ment of Providence which made young John Erskine the master of 
this small estate in the North ; or rather, perhaps, to mount a little . 
higher, we might venture to say that it was a very embarrassing cir-' 
cumstance, and the cause of a great deal of confusion in this, life, that 
Henry Erskine, his father, should have died when he did. What- 
ever might be the consequences of that step to himself, to others it 
could scarcely be characterized but as a mistake. That young man 
had begun to live an honest, wholesome life, as a Scotch country 
gentleman should ; and if he had continued to exist, his wife would 
.have been like other country gentlemen’s wives, and his child, 
brought up at home, would have grown, like the heather, in adapta- 
tion to the soil. But when he was so ill-advised as to die, confusion 
of every kind ensued. 

The widow was young, and Dalrulzian was solitary. She lived 
there, devoutly and conscientiously doing her duty, for some years. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


7 


Then she went abroad, as everybody does, for that change of air and 
scene which is so necessary to our lives. And in Switzerland she 
met a clergyman to whom change had also been necessary, and who 
was taking the duty” in a mountain caravansary of tourists. 
What opportunities there are in such a position ! She was pensive, 
and he was sympathetic. He had a sister, whom she invited to 
Dalrulzian, if she did not mind winter in the North and Miss 
Kingsford did not mind winter anywhere, so long as it was for her 
brother’s advantage. The end was, that Mrs. Erskine became Mrs. 
Kingsford, to the great though silent astonishment of little John, now 
eleven years old, who could not make it out. They remained at 
Dalrulzian for a year or two, for Mr. Kingsford rather liked the 
shooting, and the power of asking a friend or two to share it. But 
at the end of that time he got a living — a good living ; for events, 
whether good or evil, never come singly ; and, taking John’s interests 
into full consideration, it was decided that the best thing to be done 
was to let the house. Everybody thought this advisable, even John’s 
old grand-aunt in Dunearn, of whom his mother was more afraid 
than of all her trustees put together. It was with fear and trembling 
that she had ventured to unfold this hesitating intention to the old 
lady. Mr. Kingsford thinks ” — and then it occurred to the timid 
little woman that Mr. Kingsford’s opinion as to the disposal of Henry 
Erskine’s house might not commend itself to Aunt Barbara. Mr. 
Monypenny says,” she added, faltering ; then stopped and looked 
with alarm in Miss Erskine’s face. 

‘‘ What are you frightened for, my dear? Mr. Kingsford has a 
right to his opinion, and Mr. Monypenny is a very discreet person 
and a capital man of business.” 

They think — it would be a good thing for — John ; for. Aunt 
Barbara, he is growing a big boy — we must be thinking of his educa- 
tion ” 

‘‘That’s true,” said the old lady, with the smile that was the 
grimmest thing about her. It was very uphill work continuing a 
labored explanation under the light of this smile. 

“ And he cannot — be educated — here.” ^ 

“ Wherefore no? I cannot see that, my dear. His father was 
educated in Edinburgh, which is what I suppose you meari by /ie 7 'e. 
Many a fine fellow’s been bred up at Edinburgh College, I can tell 
you ; more than you’ll find in any other place 1 ever heard of. Eh ! 
what ails you at Edinburgh ? It’s well known to be an excellent 
place for schools — schools of all kinds.” 

“ Yes, Aunt Barbara. But then, you know, John — they say he 
will have such a fine position — a long minority and a good estate ; 
they say he should have the best education that — England can 
give.” 

“ You’ll be for sending him to that idol of the English,” said the 
old lady, “ a public school, as they call it. As if all our Scotch 
schools from time immemorial hadn’t been public schools ? Well, 
and after that ” 

“ It is only an idea,” said little Mrs. Kingsford, humbly— “ not 


i 

i 


8 


THE LADIES UNDO RES. 


settled, nor anything like settled ; but they say if I were to let the 
house '' 

Aunt Barbara’s gray eyes flashed ; perhaps they were slightly 
green, as ill-natured people said. But she fired her guns in the air, 
so to speak, and once more grimly smiled. I saw something very 
like all this in your wedding-cards, Mary,” she said. No, no — no 
apologies. I will not like to see a stranger in my father’s house ; but 
that’s no-thing, that’s no-thing. I will not say but it’s veryjudicious ; 
only you’ll mind the boy’s an Erskine, and here he’ll have to lead his 
life. Mind and not make too much of an Englishman out of a Scotch 
lad, for he’ll have to live his life here.” 

“Too much of an Englishman ! ” Mr. Kingsford cried, when this 
conversation was reported to him. “ I am afraid your old lady is an 
old fool, Mary. How could he be too much of an Englishman ? Am 
/out of place here ? Does not the greater breeding include the less ? ” 
he said, with his grand air. His wife did not always quite follow his 
meaning, but she always believed in it as something that merited 
understanding ; and she was quite as deeply convinced as if she had 
understood. And accordingly the house was let to Colonel Barring- 
ton, who had not a “ place” of his own, though his elder brother 
had, and the Kingsfords “ went South ” to their rectory, with which 
John’s mother in particular was mightily pleased. It was in a far 
richer country than that which surrounded Dalrulzian — a land flow- 
ing with milk and cheese, if not honey — full of foliage and flowers. 
Mrs. Kingsford, having been accustomed only to Scotland, w^as very 
much elated with the luxuriant beauty of the place. She spoke of 
“ England” as the travelled speak of Italy — as if this climate of ours, 
which we abuse so much, was paradise. She thought “ the English ” 
so frank, so open, so demonstrative. To live in “ the South ” seemed 
the height of happiness to her. Innocent primitive Scotch gentle- 
women are prone to talk in this way. Mr. Kingsford, w^ho knew 
better, and who himself liked to compare notes with people who win- 
ter in Italy, did what he could to check her exuberance, but she was 
too simple to understand why. 

John, her son, did not share her feelings at first. John was gen- 
erally confused and disturbed in his mind by all that had happened. 
He had not got over his wonder at the marriage when he was carried 
otf to this new and alien home. He did not say much. There was 
little opening by which he could communicate his feelings. He could 
not disapprove, being too young ; and now that Mr. Kingsford was 
always there, the boy had no longer the opportunity to influence his 
mother as, young as he was, he had hitherto done — “ tyrannize over 
his mother,” some people called it. All that was over. Much puz- 
zled, the boy was dropped back into a properly subordinate position, 
which no doubt was much better for him ; but it was a great change. 
To do him justice, he was never insubordinate ; but he looked at 
his mother’s husband with eyes out of which the perplexity never 
died. There was a permanent confusion ever after in his sense of 
domestic relationship, and the duty he owed to his seniors and su- 
periors ; for he never quite knew how it was that Mr. Kingsford had 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


9 


become the master of his fate, though a certain innate pride, as well 
as his love of his mother, taught him to accept the yoke which he 
could not throw off. Mr. Kingsford was determined to do his duty 
by John. He vowed, when he gave the somewhat reluctant, proud 
little Scotsman — feeling himself at eleven too old to be kissed — a 
solemn embrace, that he would do the boy every justice.” He 
should have the best education, the most careful guardianship ; and 
j Mr. Kingsford kept his word. He gave the boy an ideal education 
from his own point of view. He sent him to Eton, and, when the 
due time came, to Oxford, and considered his advantage in every 
way ; and it is needless to say that, as John grew up, the sensation 
of incongruity, the wonder that was in his mind as to this sudden 
interference with all the natural arrangements of his life, died away. 
It came to be a natural thing to him that Mr. Kingsford should 
have charge of his affairs. And he went home to the Rectory for 
the holidays to find now and then a new baby, but all in the quiet 
natural way of use and wont, with no longer anything that struck him 
as strange in his relationships. And yet he was put out of the natural 
current of his life. Boy as he was, he thought sometimes not only 
of special corners in the woods and turns of the stream, where he 
nibbled as a boy at the big sports which are the life of men in 
the country — but, above all, of the house, the landscape, the* great 
sweep of land and sky, of which, when he shut his eyes, he could 
always conjure up a vague vision. He thought of it with a sort of 
grudge that it was not within his reach — keen at first, but afterward 
very faint and slight, as the boy’s sentiments died away in those of 
the man. 

Meanwhile it was an excellent arrangement, who could doubt, 
for John’s interest — instead of keeping up the place, to have a rent 
for it ; and he had the most excellent man of business, who nursed 
his estate like a favorite child ; so that when his minority was over, 
and Colonel Barrington’s lease out, John Erskine was in a more - 
favorable position than any one of his name had been for some gen- 
erations. The estate was small. When his father died, exclusive 
of Mrs. Erskine’s jointure, there was not much more than a thou- 
sand a year to come out of it ; and on fifteen hundred a year his 
father had thought himself very well off, and a happy man. In the 
meantime there had been accumulations which added considerably 
to this income, almost making up the sum which Mrs. Kingsford 
enjoyed for her life. And John had always been treated at the 
Rectory as a golden youth, happily exempted from all the uncertain- 
ty and the need of making their own way, which his step-father an- 
nounced, shaking his head, to be the fate of his own boys. Her 
eldest son, who was in such a different position,” was a great pride 
to Mrs. Kingsford, even when it seemed to her half an injury that her 
other children should have no share in his happiness. But, indeed, 
she consoled herself by reflecting an eldest son is always in a very 
different position ; and no elder brother could have been kinder — 
voluntarily undertaking to send Reginald to Eton, ^Svhich was a 
thing we never could have thought of with no money,” as soon as he 

I* 


lO 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


came of age ; and in every way comporting himself as a good son 
and brother. 

There were, however, points in this early training which were 
bad for John. He acquired an exaggerated idea of the importance 
of this position of his. He was known both at school and college as a 
youth of property, the representative of a county family. These 
words mean more at Eton and Oxford than they require to do at 
Edinburgh and St. Andrews ; and, in these less expensive precincts, 
Erskine of Dalrulzian would have been known for what he was. 
Whereas in the South’* nobody knew anything about the dimen- 
sions of his estate or the limits of his income, and everybody sup- 
posed him a young North-country potentate, with perhaps a castle 
or two and unlimited moors” — who would be an excellent fellow 
to know as soon as he came into his own. This was John’s own 
opinion in all these earlier days of youth. He did not know what 
his income was ; and had he known, the figures would not have meant 
anything particular to him. A thousand a year seems to imply a 
great deal of spending to a youth on an allowance of three hundred ; 
and he accepted everybody’s estimate of his importance with pleased 
satisfaction. After all the explanations which followed his coming 
of age, he had, indeed, a touch of disenchantment and momentary 
alarm, feeling the details to be less splendid than he had expected. But 
Mr. Monypenny evidently considered them anything but insignific- 
ant — and a man of his experience, the y^outh felt, was bound to know. 
He had gone abroad in the interval between leaving Oxford and 
coming home ” to take possession of his kingdom. He was not dis- 
sipated or extravagant, though he had spent freely. He was a good 
specimen of a young man of his time — determined that everything 
about him should be in ‘‘good form,” and very willing to do his 
duty and be bon prince to his dependants. And he anticipated with 
pleasure the life of a country gentleman, such as he had seen it in 
his mother’s neighborhood, and in several houses of his college friends 
to which he had been invited. Sometimes, indeed, it would occur 
to him that his recollections of Dalrulzian were on a less extensive 
scale ; but a boy’s memory is always flattering to a home which he 
has not seen since his earliest years. Thus it was with a good deal 
of pleasant excitement that he set out from Milton Magna, his step- 
father’s rectory, where he had gone to see his mother and the chil- 
dren for a week or two on his return from the Continent. The season 
was just beginning, but John, full of virtue and hope, decided that 
he would not attempt to indulge in the pleasures of the season. Far 
better to begin his real life, to make acquaintance with his home 
and his “people,” than to snatch a few balls and edge his way 
through a few crowded receptions, and feel himself nobody. This 
was not a thing which John much liked. He had been somebody 
all his life. Easter had been early that year, and everything had 
been early. He stayed in town a week or two, saw all that was go- 
ing on at the theatres, got all the last information that was to be had 
at the club on parliamentary matters, waited a day more “to see 
the pictures,” and then set off on his homeward way. He had every- 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


II 


thing a young man of fortune requires, except a servant, for his 
habits were independent. He had been ‘‘knocking about,” and 
there was no room at the Rectory for such an appendage. So he 
took his own ticket, and himself saw his multifarious portmanteaus 
placed in the van which was to go “ through.” There were a great 
many mingled elements in his pleasure — the satisfaction of “ coming 
to his kingdom ; ” the pleasure of renewing old associations, and 
taking his natural place ; the excitement of novelty — for it would 
all be as new to him, this home which he had not seen for a dozen 
years, as if he had never been there before. From thirteen to five- 
and-twenty, what a difference ! He began to look about him with a 
new sensation as the morning rose after that long night journey, and 
he felt himself approaching home. 


CHAPTER II. 

Old Rolls had been butler at Dalrulzian since John Erskine was 
a child. He had “ stayed on ” after Mrs. Erskine’s second marriage 
with reluctance, objecting seriously to a step-master at all, and still 
more to one that was an “ English minister ; ” but the house had 
many attractions for him. He liked the place ; his sister was the 
cook, a very stationary sort of woman, who had the greatest disin- 
clination to move. She was a sort of human cat, large and smooth 
and good-natured, , almost always purring, satisfied with herself and 
all who were moderately good to her ; and, as was natural, she made 
the butler very comfortable, and was extremely attentive to all his 
little ways. When Colonel Barrington took the house, Rolls once 
more expressed his determination to leave. 

“ What for ? ” said the placid Bauby ; “ the gentleman was keen 
to have a^ the servants — a’ the servants that would bide.” 

“ A’ the servants ! there’s so many of us,” said Rolls, derisively. 
There was indeed only himself, the cook, and one house-maid ; the 
other, who had charge of John in his earlier days, and still was at- 
tached to him more or less, had gone with the family — and so, of 
course, had Mrs. Kingsford’s maid. “ We’ll mak’ a grand show in 
the servants’ hall — we’re just a garrison,” Rolls said. 

“ We’re plenty for a’ the work there is the now,” said the mild 
woman, “ and they’ll bring some with them. What ails ye to bide ? 
You’re real well aff — and me that kens exactly how you like your 
meat. Where would you be studied as I study you ? You may just 
be thankful it’s in your power.” 

“ It was with the Erskines I took service,” said Rolls. “ I’m no 
sure that I could put up with strangers, and them just travelling 
English. Besides, I’ve never been clear that service is my vocation, 
A kent family is one thing, a foreign master another. Him and me 
would very likely no get on — or them and me would no get on. All 


12 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


“went very well in the last reign. Hairy Erskine was a gentleman, 
like all his forbears before him ; but how am I to tell who is this 
cornel, or whatever they ca’ him — a man I never heard tell of be- 
fore ? I’ll give them over the keys, and maybe I’ll wait till they’re 
suited, but nobody can ask me to do more.” 

Hoot, Tammas ! ” said his sister : which was the highest height 
of remonstrance she ever reached. 

Notwithstanding this, however, year after year Rolls had stayed 
on.” He was very distinct in pointing out to ‘‘ the cornel” the su- 
periority of his native masters, and the disadvantage to Scotland 
of having so many of the travelling English taking up the houses of 
the gentry ; but he was an excellent servant, and his qualities in this 
way made up for his defects in the other — if, indeed, those defects 
did not tell in his favor ; for a Scotch servant who is a character is, 
like a ghost, a credit to any old and respectable house. The Bar- 
ringtons were proud of old Rolls. They laid temptations in his way 
and made him talk whenever they had visitors ; and his criticisms 
on the English, and the opinions which he freely enunciated on all 
subjects, had often kept the party in amusement. Rolls, however, 
had not been able to defend himself against a certain weakness for 
the children, especially for Nora, who was very small when the fam- 
ily came to Dalrulzian, and whom he had brought up, as he flattered 
himself, regretting much all the time that she was not an Erskine 
and natural-born daughter of the house. Rolls did not by any means 
see the departure of the Barringtons unmoved, notwithstanding that 
he hurried them away. He stood for a long time looking after the 
coach,” which was a sort of rude omnibus, as it Jolted down the 
avenue. The old servant stood in the clear morning air, through 
which every creak of the jingling harness and every jolt of the wheels 
sounded so distinctly, and the voice of Jock Beaton apostrophizing 
his worn-out horse, and watched the lingering departure with feelings 
of a very mingled description. There’s fee?iisT^\xi to that chapter,” 
he said to himself aloud. We’re well rid of them.” But he lin- 
gered as long as the yellow panels could be seen gleaming through 
the trees at the turn of the road, without any of the jubilation in his 
face which he expressed in his words. At that last turn, just when 
the coach” reached the high-road, something white was waved 
from the window, which very nearly made an end of Rolls. He ut- 
tei;ed something which at first sounded like a sob, but was turned 
into a laugh, so to speak, before it fell into that tell-tale air which 
preserves every gradation of sound. It’s that bit thing!” Rolls 
said, more sentimental than perhaps he had ever been in his life. 
His fine feeling was, however, checked abruptly. 

You’re greetin’ yourself, Tammas,” said a soft round voice, in- 
terrupted by sobs, over his shoulder. 

Me greetin’ ! ” he turned round upon her with a violence that, 
if Bauby had been less substantial and less calm, would have driven 
her to the other end of the house ; I’m just laughing to see the 
nonsense you women-folk indulge in : but it’s paardonable in the 
case of a bit creature like Miss Nora. And I allow they have aright 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


n 


to feel it. Where will they find a bonny place like Dalrulzian, and 
next to nothing in the way of rent or keeping up ? But Pm thank- 
ful myself to see the nest cleared out, and the real man in it. What 
are you whimpering about ? It’s little you’ve seen of them, aye in 
your kitchen.” 

^^Me seen little of them ! ” cried Bauby, roused to a kind of soft 
indignation ; ‘‘ the best part of an hour with the mistress every day 
of my life, and as kind a sympathizing woman ! There’ll be nae 
leddy now to order the dinners — and that’s a great responsibility, let 
alone anything else.” 

‘‘Go away with your responsibility. I’ll order your dinners,” 
said Rolls. 

“ Well,” said Bauby, not without resignation, “ to be a servant, 
and no born a gentleman, you’ve aye been awfu’ particular about 
your meat.” And she withdrew consoled, though drying her eyes, 
to wonder if Mr. John would be “ awfu’ particular about his meat,” 
or take whatever was offered to him, after the fashion of some young 
men. Meat, it must be explained, to Baudy Rolls meant food of all 
descriptions — not only that which she would herself have correctly 
and distinctly distinguished as “ butcher’s meat.” 

The house was very empty and desolate after all the din and 
hustle. The furniture had faded in the quarter of a century and 
more which had elapsed since Harry Erskine furnished his drawing- 
room for his bride. That had not been a good period for furniture, 
according to our present lights, and everything looked dingy and 
faded. The few cosy articles with which the late tenants had 
changed its character had been removed ; the ornaments and pretti- 
nesses were all gone. The gay limp old chintzes, the faded carpet, 
the walls in sad want of renewal, obtruded themselves even upon 
the accustomed eye of Rolls. The nest might be cleared, but it 
looked a somewhat forlorn and empty nest. He stood upon the 
threshold of the drawing-room, contemplating it mournfully. A 
little of that “ cheeney and nonsense ” which he had been highly in- 
dignant with Mrs. Barrington for bringing, would have been of the 
greatest consequence now to brighten Tlie walls ; and a shawl or a 
hat thrown on a chair, which had called forth from old Rolls many a 
grumble in the past, would have appeared to him now something 
like a sign of humanity in the desert. But all that was over, and the 
old servant, painfully sensible of the difference in the aspect of the 
place, began to grow afraid of its effect upon the young master. If, 
after all, John should not be “ struck” with his home ! If, terrible 
to think of, he might prefer some house “ in the South ” to Dalrul- 
zian ! “ But it’s no possible,” said Rolls to himself. He made a 

survey of all the rooms in the new anxiety that dawned upon him. 
The library was better ; there were a good many books on the 
shelves, and it had not to Rolls the air of desertion the other rooms 
had. He lighted a fire in it, though it was the first week in May, 
and took great pains to restore by it an air of comfort and habita- 
tion. Then he took a walk down the avenue in order to make a 
critical examination of the house from a little distance, to see how 


14 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


it would look to the new-comer. And Roll could not but think it a 
most creditable-looking house. The fir-trees on the top of the hill 
threw up their sombre fan of foliage against the sky ; the birches 
were breathing forth a spring sweetness— the thin young foliage, 
softly washed in with that tenderest of greens against the darker 
background, seemed to appeal to the spectator, forbidding any hasty 
judgment, with the promise of something beautiful to come. The 
ash-trees were backward, no doubt, but they are always backward. 
In the woods the primroses were appearing in great clusters, and 
the parterres under the terrace were gay with the same. Rolls took 
comfort as he gazed. The avenue was all green, the leaves in some 
sunny corners quite shaken out of their husks, in all bursting hope- 
fully. It’s a bonny place,” Rolls said to himself, with a sigh of 
excitement and anxiety. Bauby, who shared his feelings in a soft- 
ened, fat, comfortable way of her own, was standing in the doorway, 
with her little shawl pinned over her broad chest, and a great white 
apron blazing in the light of the morning sun. She had a round 
face, like a full moon, and a quantity of yellow hair smoothed under 
the white cap, which was decorously tied under her chin. . She did 
not take any of the dignity of a housekeeper-cook upon her, but she 
was a comfortable creature to behold, folding her round arms, with 
the sleeves rolled up a little, and looking out with a slight curve, like 
a shadow of the pucker on her brother’s brows, in her freckled fore- 
head. She was ready to cry for joy when Mr. John appeared, just as 
she had cried for sorrow when the Barringtons went away. Neither 
of these effusions of sentiment would disturb her greatly, but they 
were quite genuine all the same. Rolls felt that the whiteness of 
her apron and the good-humor of her face lit up the seriousness of 
the house. He began to give her her instructions as he advanced 
across the open space at the top of the avenue. Bauby,” he said, 
when ye hear the wheels ye’ll come, and the lasses with you ; and 
Andrew, he can stand behind ; and me — naturally I’ll be in the front : 
and we’ll have no whingeing, if you please, but the best courtesy you 
can make, and ‘We’re glad to see you home, sir,’ or something 
cheery like that. He’s been long away, and he was but a boy when 
he went. We’ll have to take care that he gets a good impression 
of his ain house.” , 

“ That’s true,” said Bauby. Tammas, I’ve heard of them that 

after a long absence have just taken a kind o’ scunner ” 

“ Hold your tongue with your nonsense ! A scunner at Dalrul- 
zian ! ” cried Rolls ; but the word sunk into the depths of his heart. 
A scunner — for we scorn a foot-note — is a sudden sickening and dis- 
gust with an object not necessarily disagreeable ; a sort of fantastic 
prejudice, which there is no struggling against. But Rolls repeated 
his directions, and would not allow himself to entertain such a fear. 

It was not, however, with any sound of wheels, triumphal or other- 
wise, that young Erskine approached his father’s house. It was all 
new and strange to him ; the hills — the broad and wealthy carses 
through which he had passed — the noble Firth, half sea, half river, 
which he had crossed over in his way— all appeared to him like land- 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


15 


scapes in a dream, places he had seen before, though he could not 
tell how or when. It was afternoon when he reached Dunearn, which 
was the nearest place of any importance. He had chosen to stop 
there instead of at the little country station a few miles farther on, 
which was proper for Dalrulzian. 

This caprice had moved him much in the same way as a prince 
has sometimes been moved to wander about incognito, and glean the 
opinions of his public as to his own character and proceedings. 
Princes in fiction are fond of this diversion ; why not a young Scotch 
laird just coming into his kingdom, whose person was quite unknown 
to his future vassals ? It amused and gently excited him to think of 
thus arriving unknown, and finding out with what eyes he was looked 
upon : for he had very little doubt that he was important enough to 
be discussed and talked of, and that the opinions of the people would 
throw a great deal of light to him upon the circumstances and pecu- 
liarities of the place. He was curious about everything — the little 
gray Scotch town, clinging to its hill-side — the freshness of the spring 
color — the width of the wistful blue sky, banked and flecked with 
white clouds, and never free, with all its brightness, from a suspicion of 
possible rain. He thought he recollected them all like things he had 
seen in a dream ; and that sense of travelling incognito, and arriving 
without any warning in the midst of a little world, all eagerly -looking 
for his arrival, but which should be innocently deceived by his un- 
pretending appearance, tickled his fancy greatly. He was five-and- 
twenty, and ought to have known better ; but there was something in 
the circumstances which Justified his excitement. He skimmed lightly 
along the quiet country road, saying to himself that he thought he re- 
membered the few clusters of houses that were visible here and there, 
one of them only big enough to be called a village, where there was a 
merchant’s ” shop, repository of every kind of ware, and a black- 
smith’s smithy. Two or three times he stopped to ask the way to 
Dalrulzian out of pure pleasure in the question ; for he never lost 
sight of that line of fir-trees against the horizon which indicated his 
native hill ; but after he had put this question once or twice, it must 
^be added that young Erskine’s satisfaction in it failed a little. He 
^ceased to feel the excitement of his incognito, the pleasure of enter- 
ing his dominions like a young prince in disguise.. The imagination 
of the women at the village doors, the chance passengers on the way, 
were not occupied with the return of John Erskine ; they were much 
more disposed to think and talk of the others who had no right, it 
seemed to him, to occupy their thoughts. 

‘‘ Dalrulzian! you’ll find nobody there the day,” said a country- 
man whom he overtook and accosted on the road. The family’s 
away this morning, and a great loss they will be to the country- 
side.” 

The family ! ” said John, and he felt that his tone was querul- 
ous in spite of himself. ‘‘I did not understand that there was a 
family.” 

“ Ay was there, and one that will be missed sore; both gentle 
and simple will miss them. Not the real family, but as good, or 


i6 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


maybe better,” the man said, with a little emphasis, as if he meant 
offence, and knew who his questioner was. 

The young man reddened in spite of him.self. This was not the 
kind of popular report which in his incognito he had hoped to hear. 

The laird is what they call in Ireland an absentee,” said his 
companion. ‘‘We’re no minding muckle in Scotland if they’re ab- 
sentees or no ; they can please themsels. But there’s nae family of 
the Erskines — nothing but a young lad ; and the cornel that’s had the 
house was a fine, hearty, weel-spoken man, with a good word for 
everybody ; and the ladies very kind, and pleasant, and neighbor- 
like. Young Erskine must be a young laird past the ordinar if he 
can fill their place.” 

“ But, so far as I understand, the estate belongs to him, does it 
not ? ” Erskine asked, with an involuntary sharpness in his voice. 

“ Oh ay, it belongs to him : that makes but sma’ difference. 
Ye’re no bound to be a fine fellow,” said the roadside philosopher, 
with great calmness, “ because ye’re the laird of a bit sma’ country 
place ” 

“ Is it such a small place ? ” cried the poor young prince incogs 
nito, appalled by this revelation. He felt almost childishly annoy- 
ed and mortified. His companion eyed him with a cool half-satiri- 
cal gaze. 

“ You’re maybe a friend of the young man ? Na, I’m saying nae 
ill of the place nor of him. Dalrulzian’s a fine little property and a’ 
in good order, thanks to auld Monypenny in Dunearn. Maybe 
you’re from Dunearn? It’s a place that thinks muckle of itself; 
but nae doubt it would seem but a poor bit town to you coming from 
the South ? ” 

“ How do you know I come from the South ? ” said John. 

“ Oh, I ken the cut of ye fine,” said the man. “ I’m no easy de- 
ceived. And I daur to say you could tell us something about this 
new laird. There’s different opinions about him. Some thinks 
him a lad with brains, that could be put up for the county and spite 
the earl. I’ve no great objection mysel’ to the earl or his opinions, 
but to tak’ another man’s nominee, if he was an angel out of heaven, 
is little credit to an enlightened constituency. So there’s been twa- 
three words. You’ll no know if he has ony turn for politics, or if 
he’s a clever lad, or ” 

“You don’t seem to mind what his politics are,” said the unwary 
young man. 

His new friend gave him another keen glance. 

“ The Erskines,” he answered, quietly, “ are a’ on the right side.” 

Now John Erskine was aware that he did not himself possess 
political opinions sufficiently strenuous to be acknowledged by either 
side. He agreed sometimes with one party, sometimes with an other, 
which, politically speaking, is the most untenable of all positions. 
And so ignorant was he of the immediate traditions of his family, that 
he could not divune which was “ the right side ”on which the Erskines 
were sure to be. It was not a question upon which his mother could 
have informed him. As Mr. Kingsford!s wife, an orthodox Church 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


17 


of England clergywoman, she was, of course, soundly conservative, 
and thought she hated everything that called itself Liberal — which 
word she devoutly believed to include all kinds of radical, revolu- 
tionary, and atheistical sentiments. John himself had been a good 
Tory too when he was at Eton, but at Oxford had veered consider- 
ably, running at one time into extreme opinions on the other side, 

‘ then veering back, and finally settling into a hopeless eclectic, who 
by turns sympathized with everybody, but agreed wholly with no- 
’fbody. Still it was whimsical not even to know the side on which 
the Erskines were declared with so much certainty to be. It pleased 
him at least to find that they had character enough to have tradition- 
ary politics at all. 

You must excuse me as a stranger,” he said, if I don’t quite 
know what side you regard as the — right side.” 

His friend looked at him with a sarcastic gaze — a look John felt 
which set him down not only as devoid of ordinary intelligence, but 
jf common feeling. ‘‘It’s clear to see you are not of that way of 
thinking,” he said. 

As he uttered this contemptuous verdict they came opposite to 
a gate, guarded by a pretty thatched cottage which did duty for a 
lodge. John felt his heart give a jump, notwithstanding the abashed 
yet amused sensation with which he felt himself put down. It was 
the gate of Dalrulzian : he remembered it as if he had left it yester- 
day. A woman came to the gate and looked out, shielding her eyes 
with her hand from the level afternoon sun that, shone into them. 
“ Have you seen anything of our young master, John Tamson ? ” she 
said. “ I’m aye thinking it’s him every sound 1 hear.” 

“ There’s the road,” said the rural politician, briefly addressing 
John ; then he turned to the woman at the gate. “If it’s no him, I 
reckon it’s a friend. Ye had better pit your questions here,” he 
said. 

“John Thomson 1 ” said John, with some vague gleam of recol- 
lection. “ Are you one of the farmers ? ” The man looked at him 
with angry, the woman with astonished, eyes. 

“My freend,” said John Thomson, indignantly, “I wouldna • 
wonder but you have plenty of book-learning ; but you’re an igno- 
rant young fop for a’ that, if you were twenty times the laird’s 
freend.” 

John, for his part, was too much startled and amused to be 
angry. “Am I an ignorant young fop?” he said. “Well, it is 
possible — but why in this particular case ” 

“ Noo, noo ! ” said the woman, who left the lodge, coming for- 
ward with her hands spread out, and a tone of anxious conciliation. 
“ Dear bless me ! what are you iDickering about ? He’s no a farmer, 
but he’s just as decent a man — nobody better thought of for miles 
about. And, John Tamson, I’m astonished at you ! Can you no let 
the young gentleman have his joke without taking offence like this, 
that was never meant ? ” 

“ I like nae such jokes,” said John Thomson, angrily ; and he 
went off swinging down the road at a great pace. John stood look- 


i8 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


ing after him for a moment greatly perplexed. The man did not 
touch his hat nor the woman courtesy, as they certainly would have 
done at Milton Magna. He passed her mechanically without think- 
ing of her, and went in at his own gate — not thinking of that either, 
though it was an event in his life. This little occurrence had given 
an impulse in another direction of his thoughts. 

But the woman of the lodge called after him. She had made a 
slightly surprised objection to his entrance, which he did not notice 
in his preoccupation. ‘‘Sir, sir! ’’ she cried, “ youTe welcome to 
walk up the avenue, which is a bonny walk ; but you’ll find nobody 
in the house. The young laird, if it was him you was wanting to 
see, is expected every mihute ; but there’s no signs of him as yet — 
and he canna come now till the four o’clock train.” 

“ Thank you. I’ll walk up the avenue,” said John, and then he 
turned back. “ Why did you think I was making a joke? and why 
was your friend offended when I asked if he was one of the farmers ? 
— it was no insult, I hope.” 

“ He’s a very decent man, sir,” said the woman ; “ but I wouldna 
just take it upon me to say that he was my freend.” 

“ That’s not the question ! ” cried John, exasperated — and he 
felt some gibe about Scotch caution trembling on the tip of his 
tongue ; but he remembered in time that he was himself a Scot and 
among his own people, and he held that unruly member still. 

“ Weel, sir,” said the woman, “ if ye will ken — but, bless me ! 
it’s easy to see for yourself. The farmers about here are just as well 
put on and mounted and a’ that as you are. John Tamson ! he’s a 
very decent man, as good as any of them — but he’s just the joiner 
after a’, and a cotter’s son. He thought you were making a fool of him, 
and he’s not a man to be made a fool o’. We’re no so civil-like — nor 
maybe so humble-minded, for anything I can tell — as the English, 
sir. Baith the cornel and his lady used to tell me that.” 

It was with a mixture of irritation and amusement that John pur- 
sued his way after this little encounter. And an uncomfortable sen- 
sation, a chill, seemed to creep over his mind, and arrest his pleas- 
urable expectations as he went on. The avenue was not so fine a 
thing as its name implied. It was not lined with noble trees, nor 
did it sweep across a green universe of parks and lawns like many he 
had known. It led, instead, up the slope of the hill, through shrub- 
beries which were not more than copsevvood in some places, and un- 
der lightly arching trees not grand enough or thick enough to afford 
continuous shade. And yet it was sweet in the brightness of the 
spring tints, the half-clothed branches relieved against that variable 
yet smiling sky, the birds in full-throated chorus, singing welcome 
with a hundred voices — no nightingales there, but whole tribes of the 
“ mavis and the merle,” North-country birds and kindly. His heart 
and mind were touched alike with that half-pathetic pleasure, that 
mixture of vague recollections and forgetfulness, with which we meet 
the half-remembered faces, and put out our hands to meet the grasp 
of old friends still faithful though scarcely known. A shadow of the 
childish delight with which he had once explored these scanty yet 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


19 


fresh and friendly woods came breathing about him. The winds 
came to me from the fields of sleep.” He felt himself like two peo- 
ple : one, a happy boy at home, familiar with every corner ; the 
other a man, a spectator, sympathetically excited, faltering upon the 
forgotten way, wondering what lay round the next curve of the road. 
It was the strangest blending of the known and the unknown. 

But when John Erskine came suddenly, as he turned the corner of 
that great group of ash-trees, in sight of his house, these vague sen- 
sations, which were full of sweetness, came to an end with a sharp 
jar and shock of the real. Dalrulzian was a fact of the most solid di- 
mensions, and dispersed in a moment all his dreams. He felt him- 
self come down suddenly through the magical air, with a sensation 
of falling, with his feet upon the common soil. So that was his 
home ! He felt in a moment that he remembered it perfectly — that 
there had never been any illusions about it in his mind — that he had 
known all along every line of it, every step of the gables, the number 
of the little windows, the slopes of the gray roof. But it is impossi- 
ble to describe the keen sense of disenchantment which went through 
his mind as he said this to himself. It was not only that the solid 
reality dispersed his vision, but that it afforded a measure by which 
to judge himself and his fortunes, till now vaguely and pleasantly ex- 
aggerated in his eyes. It is seldom indeed that the dim image of 
what was great and splendid to us in our childhood does not seem 
ludicrously exaggerated when we compare it with the reality. He 
who had felt himself a young prince in disguise, approaching his do* 
mains incognito, in order to enjoy at his leisure the incense of uni- 
versal interest, curiosity, and expectation! John Erskine blushed 
crimson, though nobody saw him, as he stood alone at the corner of 
his own avenue and recognized the mistake he had made, and his 
own unimportance, and all the folly of his simple over-estimate. 
Fortunately, indeed, he had brought nobody with him to share in 
the glories of his entry upon his kingdom. He thanked Heaven for 
that, with a gasp of horror at the thought of the crowning ridicule he 
had escaped. It was quite hard enough to get over the first startling 
sensation of reality alone. 

And yet it was the same house upon which the Barringtons had 
looked back so affectionately a few hours before — which the count} 
regarded with approval, and which was visited by the best families. 
It would be hard to say what its young master had expected — a dream- 
castle, a habitation graceful and stately, a something built out of 
clouds, not out of old Scotch rubble-work and gray stone. It was 
not looking its best, it must be added. The corps de logis lay in 
gloom, thrown into shade by the projecting rustic gable, upon the 
other side of which the setting sun still played ; the yellowish walls, 
discolored here and there by damp, had no light upon them to 
throw a fictitious glow over their imperfections. The door stood 
open, showing the hall with its faded fittings, gloomy and unattrac- 
tive, and, what was more, deserted, as if the house had been aban- 
doned to dreariness and decay — not so much as a dog to give some 
sign of life. When the young man, rousing himself with an effort, 


20 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


shook off the stupor of his disappointment and vexation, and went 
on to the open door, his foot on the gravel seemed to wake a hun- 
dred unaccostomed echoes — and nobody appeared. He walked in 
unchallenged, unwelcomed, going from room to room, finding all 
equally desolate. Was there ever a more dismal coming home ? 
When he reached the library, where a little fire was burning, this to- 
ken of human life quite went to the young fellow^s heart. He was 
standing on the hearth very gloomy, gazing wistfully at the portrait 
of a gentleman in a periwig over the mantel-piece, when the door 
was pushed open and old Rolls appeared with his coat off, carrying 
a basket of wood. Rolls was as much startled as his master was disap- 
pointed, and he was vexed to be seen by a stranger in so unworthy 
an occupation. He put down his basket and glanced at his shirt- 
sleeves with confusion. ‘‘I was expecting nobody,” I'te said, in his 
own defence. ‘‘And wha may ye be,” he added, “ that comes into 
the mansion-house of Dalrulzian without speering permission, or 
ringing a bell, or chapping at a door ? ” John smiled at the old 
man’s perplexity, but said nothing. “ You’ll be a friend of oui 
young master’s ? ” he said, tentatively ; then, after an interval, in a 
voice with a quiver in it, “ You’re no meaning, sir, that you’re the 
laird himself? ” 

“For want of a better,” said John, amused in spite of himself. 
“ And you’re old Rolls ? I should have known you anywhere. 
Shake hands, man, and say you’re glad to see me. It’s like a house 
of the dead.” 

“ Na, sir, no such things ; there’s no death here. Lord bless us ! 
wha was to think you would come in stealing like a thief in the night, 
as the Bible says ? ” said Rolls, aggrieved. He felt that it was he 
who was the injured person. “ It was all settled how you were to 
be received as soon as the wheels were heard in the avenue — me on 
the steps, and the women behind, and Andrew — the haill household, 
to wit. If there’s any want of respect, it’s your ain fault. And if 
you’ll just go back to the avenue now and give us warning. I’ll cry 
up the women in a moment,” the old servant said. 


CHAPTER III. 

That night dispersed illusions from the mind of John Erskine 
which it had taken all his life to set up. He discovered in some 
degree what his real position was, and that it was not a great one. 
He got rid of many of his high notions as he walked about the pleas- 
ant, comfortable, but somewhat dingy old house, which no effort of the 
imagination could make into a great house. He made acquaintance 
with the household — Mrs. Rolls, the cook, who courtesied and cried 
for pleasure at the sight of him, and two smiling, fair-haired young 
women, and old Andrew the gardener — a quite sufficient household 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


21 


for the place, he felt, but very different from the army of servants, 
all so noiseless, punctilious, carefully drilled, whom he had seen at 
country-houses, with which he had fondly hoped his own might bear 
comparison. What a fool he had been 1 These good honest folk 
have little air of being servants at all. Their respect was far less 
than their interest in him ; and their questions were more like those 
of poor relatives than hired attendants. ‘‘ I hope your mammaw is 
well, Mr. John,” Bauby the cook had said. Let the master alone 
with your Mr. Johns,” Rolls had interrupted ; ‘‘he’s come to man’s 
estate, and you must learn to be more respectful. The women, sir, 
are all alike ; you can never look for much sense from them.” 
“ Maybe you’re right, Tammas,” said Bauby ; “ but for all that I 
cannot help saying that it’s an awfu’ pleasure to see Mr. John, that 
was but that height when I saw him last, come home a braw gentle- 
man like what I mind his father.” 

John could do nothing but stand smiling between them, hearing 
himself thus discussed. They made it very clear that he had come 
home where he would be taken ample care of — but how different it 
was from his thoughts ! He thought of the manor-house at Milton 
Magna, and laughed and blushed at the ridiculous comparisons he 
had once made. It was a keen sort of self-ridicule, sharp and pain- 
ful. He did not like to think what a fool he had been. Now he 
came to think of it, he had quite well remembered Dalrulzian. It 
was not his youthful imagination that was to blame, but a hundred 
little self-deceits, and all the things that he had been in the habit of 
hearing about his own importance and his Scotch property. His 
mother had done more than any one else to deceive him, he thought; 
and then he said to himself, “ Poor mother ! ” wondering if, perhaps, 
her little romance was all involved in Dalrulzian, and if it was a 
sacred place to her. 

To think that the Kingsford household was prose, but the early 
life in which she had been Harry Erskine’s wife and little John’s 
mother, the poetry of her existence, was pleasant to her son, who 
was fond of his mother, though she was not clever, nor even very 
sensible. John thought, with a blush, of the people whom he had 
invited to Dalrulzian under that extraordinary mistake — some of his 
friends at college — young fellows who were accustomed to houses 
full of company and stables full of horses. There was nothing in the 
stables at Dalrulzian but the hired horse which had been provided 
by Rolls, in a hired dog-cart, to bring him up from the station ; and 
as he looked round upon the room in which he sat after dinner, and 
which was quite comfortable and highly respectable, though neither 
dignified nor handsome, poor John burst into a laugh, in which there 
was more pain than amusement. He seemed to himself to be 
stranded on a desert shore. What should he do with himself, 
especially during the long summer, when there could be no hunting, 
no shooting — the summer which he had determined to occupy, with 
fi fine sense of duty, in making acquaintance with his house and his 
Surroundings, and in learning all his duties as a country gentleman 
and person of importance ? 


22 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


This thought was so poignant that it actually touched his eyelids 
with a sense of moisture. He laughed — but he could have cried. 
There would turn out, he supposed^ to be about three farms on this 
estate of his ; and Scotch farmers were very different people from 
the small farmers of the South. To talk about his tenants would be 
absurd — three pragmatical Scotchmen, much better informed in all 
practical matters at least than himself, and looking down upon him 
as an inexperienced young man. What a fool he had been ! If he 
had come down in August for the shooting, if there was any shoot- 
ing, and let his friends understand that it was a mere shooting-box — 
a little place in Scotland,’’ such as they hired when they came to 
the moors — all would have been well. But he had used no dis- 
paraging adjectives in speaking of Dalrulzian. He had called it 
my place ” boldly, and had believed it to be a kind of old castle — 
something that probably had been capable of defence in its day. 
Good heavens, what a fool he had been ! 

He had thought he would be glad to get to bed, and felt pleased 
that he was somewhat tired with his Journey ; but he found that, on 
the contrary, the night flew by amid these thoughts — fathomless 
night, slow and dark and noiseless. Rolls had made repeated at- 
tempts to draw him into conversation in what that worthy called the 
fore-night ; but by ten o’clock or so the house was as still as death, 
not a sound anywhere, and hours passed over him while he sat and 
thought. A little fire crackled and burnt in the grate, with little 
petillejnents and bursts of flame. There were a good many books on 
the shelves ; that was always something ; and Mrs. Rolls had given 
him an excellent dinner, which he ought to have considered also as 
a very great alleviation of the situation. 

John scarcely knew what hour it was when, starting suddenly up 
in the multitude of his thoughts, he threw open the window which 
looked upon the Walk and gazed out moodily upon the night. The 
night was soft and clear, and the great stretch of the landscape lay 
dimly defined under a half-veiled poetic sky, over which light float- 
ing vapors were moving with a kind of gentle solemnity. There was 
•not light enough to distinguish the individual features of the scene, 
save here and there a pale gleam of water, a darkness of wood, and 
the horizon marked by that faint silvery edge which even by night 
denotes the limit of human vision. The width, the freshness, the 
stillness, the dewy purity of the air, soothed the young man as he 
stood and looked out. What was he, a human unit in the great 
round of space, to be so disconcerted by the little standing-ground 
he had ? He felt abased as he gazed, and a strange sense of looking 
out upon his life came over him. His future was like that — all 
vague, breathing toward him a still world full of anticipations, full 
of things hidden and mysterious — his, and yet not his, as was the 
soil and the fields. He could mortgage it as he could his estate, 
but he could not sell it away from him, or get rid of what was in it, 
whether it carried out his foolish expectations or not. Certainly the 
sight of this wide scenery, in which he was to perform his part, did 
him good, though he could not see it. He closed the window, 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


23 


which was heavy, almost with violence, as he came back to the ascer- 
tained — to the limited walls with their books, the old-fashioned or- 
iginal lamp, and crackling fire. 

But this sound was very unusual in the house in the middle of 
the night. Bauby, whose room was next her brother’s, knocked up- 
on the wall to arouse him. “ D’ye hear that, Tammas ? There’s 
somebody trying to get into the house.” Her voice came to Rolls 
faintly muffled by the partition between. He had heard the noise 
as well as she, but he did not think fit to answer save by a grunt. 
Then Bauby knocked again more loudly. ^‘Tammas! Man, will 
ye no put on your breeks and go down and see what it is ? ” 

Rolls, for his part, was already in the midst of a calculation. So 
much plate as there wns in the house he had brought up with him 
to his room. They cannot steal tables and chairs,” he said to 
himself ; and as for the young laird, if he’s not able to take care 
of himself, he’ll be none the better of me for a defender.” Audibly 
he answered, Hold your tongue, woman ! If the master likes to 
take the air in the sma’ hours, what’s that to you or me ? ” 

There was a pause of dismay on Bauby’s part, and then a faint 
ejaculation of ‘‘Lord bless us! take the air I ” But she was less 
easily satisfied than her brother. 

When John went up -stairs with his candle he saw a light glim- 
mering in the gallery above, and a figure in white, far too substan- 
tial to be a ghost, leaning over the banisters. 

“ Eh, sir! is it you, Mr. John ? ” Bauby said. “I was feared it 
was robbers ; ” and then she added, in her round, soft, caressing 
voice, “ but you mustna take the air in the middle of the night ; 
you’ll get your death of cold, and then what will your mammaw say 
to me, Mr. John ? ” 

John shut himself up in his room, half laughing, half affronted. 
It was many years since he had been under the sway of his “ mam- 
ma ” in respect to his hours and habits ; and nothing could be more 
droll than to go back to the kind annoyance of domestic surveillance 
just at the moment when his manhood and independence were most 
evident. He laughed, but the encounter brought him back, after he 
had been partly freed from it, to a consciousness of all his limitations 
once more. 

But things were better in the morning. Unless you have some- 
thing bitter to reproach yourself with, or some calamity impending 
over you, things are generally better in the morning. John looked 
about him with more hopeful eyes. He had an excellent, a truly 
Scotch, breakfast, which, at five-and twenty, puts a man in good- 
humor with himself ; and there were one or two features about Dal- 
rulzian which, in the morning sunshine, looked more encouraging. 
The stables were tolerably good — made habitable, and furnished 
with some of the latest improvements by Colonel Barrington ; and 
“ the policy ” was in admirable order — the turf faultless, the shrub- 
beries flourishing, the trees — well, not like the trees at Milton Magna, 
but creditable performances for the North. John’s countenance 
cleared as he inspected everything. Rolls led or followed him about 


24 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


with great importance, introducing and explaining. Had he been 
an English butler, John would have dismissed him very summarily 
to his pantry ; but it was part of the natural mise en scene to have a 
Caleb Balderstone attached to an old Scotch house. He was half 
proud of this retainer of the family, though he threatened to be 
something of a bore ; even Bauby, and her care for his health, and her 
sense of responsibility to his mammaw ” was tolerable in this light. 

When one is born a Scotch laird, one must accept the natural 
accompaniments of the position ; and if they were sometimes annoy- 
ing, they were at least picturesque. So John put up with Rolls, and 
^‘saw the fun’^ of him with a kind of feeling that Dalrulzian was a 
Waverley novel, and he himself the hero. He had been seeing things 
so much through the eyes of his problematical visitors, that he was 
glad to see this also through their eyes. To them, these servants of 
his would be altogether ‘‘ characteristic,” and full of local color.” 
And then the subtle influence of property began to affect the young 
man and modify his disappointment. ‘‘ A poor thing, sir, but mine 
own,” he said to himself. These were my plantations ” that crested 
the hill ; the fishing on the river was said to be excellent, and be- 
longed to Dalrulzian ; the moorland on the eastern side of the hill 
was ‘^my moor.” Things began to mend. When he went back 
% again after his examination to the room from which he had started, 
John found a luncheon spread for him which was not inferior to the 
breakfast,* and Rolls, in his black coat, having resumed the butler, 
and thrown off the factotum, but not less disposed to be instructive 
than before. 

‘‘You may as well,” young Erskine said, eating an admirable 
cutlet, “ tell me something about my neighbors, Rolls.” 

“ I’ll do that, sir,” said Rolls, with cordiality ; and then he made 
a pause. “ The first to be named is no to call a neighbor ; but I 
hope, sir, you’ll think far mair of her than of any neighbor. She’s 
your ain best blood, and a leddy with a great regard for Dalrulzian, 
and not another friend so near to her as you. It came from Dalrul- 
zian, and it’ll come back to Dalrulzian with careful guiding,” said 
Rolls, oracularly — “ not to say that blood’s thicker than water, as 

fthe auld Scots by-word goes.” 

/ This address gave John some sense of perplexity ; but after an 
interval he discovered what it meant. “ It is niy old aunt Barbara 
of whom you are speaking,” he said. “ Certainly, I shall sec her 
first of all.” 

“ She is an excellent lady, sir ; careful of her money. It will be 
real good for the estate when — But, bless me ! I wadna have you to 
be looking forward to what may never come — that is to say, that 
auld Miss Barbara, being real comfortable, sir, in this life, will not 
go out of it a moment sooner than she can help ; and, for a’ that 
'vve ken o’ heaven, I wouldna blame her ; for, grand as it may be, it 
will aye be a strange place. There’s nobody more thought upon in 
the county than Miss Barbara Erskine at Dunearn. Weel, sir, and 
the neighbors. There’s the Earl of Lindores first of a’. We maun 
give him the paw, as the French say. Maybe you’ve met with some 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


25 


of the family in London ? You’ll see plenty and hear plenty of them 
here. The earl he is a very pushing man. He would like to take 
the lead in a’ the county business ; but there’s many of the gentry that 
are not exactly of that opinion. And my lady countess, she’s of the 
booky kind, with authors, and painters, and that kind of cattle aye 
about the place. I’m not that fond of thae instructed leddies. Wee- 
men are best no to be ower clever, in my poor opinion. Young Rin- 
toul, that’s the son, is away with his regiment ; I ken no-thing of 
him : and there’s two young leddies -’ 

‘‘Now I remember,” said John. “You are the most concise of ‘ 
chroniclers. Rolls. I like your style. I once knew some of the Lin- 
dores family — cousins, I suppose. There were young ladies in that 
family too. I knew them very well.” Here he paused, a smile steal- 
ing about the corners of his mouth. 

“ I ken no-thing about their relations,” said Rolls. “ It was an 
awfu’ melancholy story ; but it’s an ill wind that blaws nobody good. 
The late earl was liked by everybody. But I’m saying no-thing 
against this family. One of the young daughters is married, poor 
thing ! The other one at hame, my Lady Edith, is a bonny bit 
creature. She was great friends with oor young lady. But if you 
were to ask my opinion, sir — which is neither here nor there,” said 
Rolls, in insinuating tones — “ I would say there was not one that 
was fit to hold the candle to Miss Nora. We had our bits of tiffs, the 
cornel and me. There were some things he would never see in a 
proper light ; but they were much thought o’, and saw a’ the best 
company. When you let a place, it’s a grand thing to have tenants 
that never let down the character of the house.” 

“ You mean the Barringtons,” said John. He was not much in- 
terested in this subject. They had been unexceptionable tenants ; 
but he could scarcely help regarding them with a little jealousy, al- 
most dislike, as if they had been invaders of his rights. 

“ And they were awfu’ fond of it,” said Rolls, watching his young 
master’s countenance — “ Miss Nora above a’. You see she’s grown 
up at Dalrulzian. It was all they could do to get her away from the 
Walk this last morning, I thought she w’ould have grown till’t. If 
you and Miss Nora were ever to meet,” the old servant added, in 
his most engaging tones, “ I cannot but believe you would be real 
good — freends— — ” 

“ I see you have provided for every contingency,” said the young 
laird, with a laugh. His Caleb Balderstone, he said to himself, was 
almost better, if that were possible, than Scott’s. But John’s mind 
had been set afloat on a still more pleasant channel, and he let the 
old man maunder on. 

“ It’s true she’s English,” said Rolls ; “ but that matters no-thing 
in my opinion, on what they call the side of the distaff. I’ll no say 
but it’s offensive in a rnan : putting up so long with the cornel and 
his ways of thinking, I’m no a bad authority on that. But weemen 
Jre a different kind of creatures. A bit discrepancy, if ye may so call 
it— a kind of a different awkcent, so to speak, baith in the soul and 
the tongue, is just a pleasant variety. It gives new life to a family 
2 




26 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


sometimes, and mends the breed, if you’ll no think me coarse. A 
little of everything is good in a race. And besides being so good 
and so bonny. Miss Nora will have a little siller of her ain, which 
spoils nothing. Not one of your great fortunes, but just a little siller 
— enough for their preens and rubbitch — of her ain.” 

Here, however, the pleasant delusion with which Nora’s humble 
champion was delighting himself was suddenly dispersed by a ques- 
tion which proved his young master to be thinking nothing about 
Nora. used to know some of the Lindores family,” John re- 
peated — ‘^a brother of the earl. I wonder if they ever come 
here ? ” 

I know nothing about their relations, sir,” said Rolls, promptly. 

It’s thought the earl’s awfu’ ambitious. They’re no that rich, and 
he has an eye to everything that will push the family on. There’s 
one of them married, poor thing ! ” 

I am afraid you are a fierce old bachelor,” said John, rising from 
the table ; this is the second time you have said ‘ poor thing.’ ” 

That’s my Lady Caroline, sir,” said Rolls, with a grave face, 
‘‘ that’s married upon Torrance of Tinto, far the richest of all our 
neighbor gentlemen. You’ll no remember him? He was a big 
mischievous callant when you were but a little thing, begging your 
pardon, sir, for the freedom,” said the old servant, with a little bow 
of apology ; but the gravity of his countenance did not relax. ‘Mt’s 
not thought in the country-side that the leddy was very fain of the 
marriage, poor thing ! ” 

You are severe critics in the country-side. One must take care 
what one does. Rolls.” 

Maybe, sir, that’s true ; they say public opinion’s a grand thing 
— whiles it will keep a person from going wrong. But big folk think 
themselves above that,” Rolls said. And then, having filled out a 
glass of wine, which his master did not want, he withdrew. Rolls 
was not quite satisfied with the young laird. He betook himself to 
the kitchen with his tray and a sigh, unburdening himself to Bauby 
as he set down the remains of the meal on the table. ‘‘ I wouldna 
wonder,” he said,. shaking his head, if he turned out mair English 
ban the cornel himsel.” 

Hoot, Tammas! ” said Bauby, always willing to take the best 
view, that’s no possible. When ye refleck that he was born at Dal- 
rulzian, and brought up till his thirteenth year ■” 

‘^Sic bringing up!” cried old Rolls; ‘‘and a step-faither that 
never could learn so much as to say the name right o’ the house that 
took him in ! ” 

Meanwhile John, left alone with his own thoughts, found a curious 
vein of new anticipations opened to him by the old man’s talk. The 
smile that had lighted on the corners of his mouth came back and 
settled there, betraying something of the maze of pleased recollec- 
tions, the amused yet tender sentiment which these familiar yet 
half-forgotten names had roused again. Caroline and Edith Lin- 
dores ! No doubt they were family names, and the great yoimg 
ladies who were his neighbors were the cousins of those happy girls 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


27 


whom he remembered so well. The Lindores had been at a Swiss 
mountain inn where he and some of his friends had lived for six weeks 
under pretence of reading. They had made friends on the score of 
old family acquaintance at home ; ” and he never remembered so 
pleasant a holiday. What had become of the girls by this time ? 
Carry, the eldest, 'was sentimental'and poetical, and all the young men 
were of opinion that Beaufort, the young University Don, who was 
at the head of the party, had talked more poetry than was good for 
him with that gentle enthusiast. Beaufort had gone to the Bar since 
then, and was said to be getting on. Had they kept up their inter- 
course, or had it dropped, John wondered, as his own acquaintance 
with the family had dropped ? They were poor people, living abroad 
for economy and education, notwithstanding that Mr. Lindores was 
brother to an earl. Surely sometimes the earl must invite his rela- 
tions, or at least he would be sure to hear of them, to come within 
the circle of their existence again. Young Erskine had almost for- 
gotten, to tell the truth, the existence of the Lindores ; yet when 
they were thus recalled to him, and the possibility of a second meet- 
ing dawned on his mind, his heart gave a jump of pleasure in his 
bosom. On the instant there appeared before him the prettiest fig- 
ure in short frocks, with an aureola of hair about the young head — a 
child, yet something more than a child. Edith had been only six- 
teen, he remembered ; indeed, he found that he remembered every- 
thing about her as soon as her image was thus lightly called back. 
What might she be now, in her grown-up condition ? Perhaps not 
so sweet, perhaps married — a contingency which did not please him 
to think of. And what if he should be on the eve of seeing her 
again ! 

The smile of pleasure, of amusement, even of innocent vanity 
with which in this airy stage a young man contemplates such a pos- 
sibility threw a pleasant light over his face. He went out with that 
smile half hidden under his fair mustache, which gave it a kind of 
confidential character between him and himself, so to speak. As 
he had nothing else to do, it occurred to him to take a walk on the 
road to Dunearn, where he had seen the French-Scotch iourelles of 
Lindores Castle through the trees the day before, and take a look 
at ” the place — why, he did not know — for no particular reason, 
merely to amuse himself ; and as he went down the avenue that old 
episode came back to him more and more fully. He remembered 
all the little expeditions, the little misadventures, the jokes, though 
perhaps they were not brilliant. Carry lingering behind with Beau- 
fort, talking Shelley, with a flush of enthusiasm about her : Edith 
always foremost, chidden and petted, and made much of by every- 
body, with her long hair waving, and those fine little shoes which he 
had tied once — thick mountain shoes — but such wonderful Cinderella 
articles ! All these recollections amused him like a story as he went 
down the avenue, taking away his attention from external things ; 
and it was not till he was close upon the gate that he was aware of 
the presence of two ladies who seemed to have paused on their walk 
to speak to Peggy Burnet, the gardener’s wife, who inhabited the 


28 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


lodge. His ear was caught by his own name, always an infallible 
means of rousing the most careless attention. He could not help 
hearing what Peggy was saying, for her voice was somewhat high- 
pitched, and full of rural freedom. Oh ay, my leddy ; the young 
maister, thaPs Mr. John, that’s the laird, came hame yestreen,” 
Peggy was saying, before he was expectit. The carriage — that’s 
the bit dog-cart, if you can ca’ it a carriage, for there’s nothing bet- 
ter left, nor so much as a beast to draw it that we can ca’ oor ain — 
was sent to the station to meet him. When, lo ! he comes linking 
along the road on his ain twa legs, and no so much as a bag or a 
portmanty behind him, and asks at the gate, Is this Dalrulzian? ken- 
ning nothing of his ain house ! And me, I hadna the sense to think. 
This is him ; but just let him in as if he had been a stranger ; and 
no a creature to take the least notice ! Mr. Rolls was just out o’ 
himsel with vexation, to let the young maister come hame as if he 
had been ony gangrel body ;.but it couldna be called my fault.” 

‘‘ Surely it could not be your fault ; if he wanted a reception, he 
should have come when he was expected,” said a softer voice, with 
a little sound of laughter. Surely, John thought, he had heard that 
voice before. He hurried forward wondering, taking off his hat in- 
stinctively. Who were they? Two ladies, one elder, one younger, 
mother and daughter. They looked up at him as he approached. 
The faces were familiar, and yet not familiar. Was it possible ? 
He felt himself redden with excitement as he stood breathless, his 
hat off, the blood flushing to the very roots of his hair, not able to 
get out a word in his surprise and pleasure. They on their side 
looked at him smilingly, not at all surprised, and the elder lady held 
out her hand. After so long a time you will scarcely know us, Mr. 
Erskine,” she said ; but we knew you were expected, and all about 
you, you see.” 

Know you? ” cried John, almost speechless with the wonder 
and delight. Mrs. Lindores ! The thing is, can I venture to be- 
lieve my eyes ? There never was such luck in the world ! I think 
I must be dreaming. Who would have expected to meet you here, 
and the very first day ? ” 

Peggy Burnet was much disturbed by this greeting. She pushed 
forward, making an anxious face at him. ‘‘Sir! sir! you maun say 
my leddy,” she breathed, in a shrill whisper, which he was too much 
excited to take any notice of, but which amused the ladies. They 
cast a laughing look at each other. “ Didn’t you know we were here ? ” 
the mother said. “ Then we had the advantage of you. We have 
been speculating about you for weeks past — whether you would be 
much changed, whether you would come at once to Lindores to re- 
new old acquaintance ” 

“ That you may be sure I should have done,” said John, “ as 
soon as I knew you were there. And are you really at Lindores ? 
living there? for good? It seems too delightful to be true.” 

They were both changed. And he did not know why they should 
look at each other with such a laughing interchange of glances. 1 1 made 
him somewhat uncomfortable, though his mind was too full of the 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


29 


pleasure of seeing them to be fully conscious of it. It was Edith, as was 
natural, who was most altered in appearance. She had been a tall 
girl, looking more than her age ; and now she was a small, very 
young woman. At that period of life such changes happen some- 
times ; but the difference was delightful, though embarrassing. Yes, 
smaller, she was actually smaller, he said to himself — “as high as 
my heart,” as Orlando says ; yet no longer little Edith, but an im- 
posing, stately personage, at whom he scarcely ventured to look 
boldly, but only snatched shy glances at, abashed by her soft regard. 
He went on stammering out his pleasure, his delight, his surprise, 
hardly knowing what he said. “ I had just begun to hope that you 
mighrcome sometimes, that I might have a chance of seeing you,” 
he was saying ; whereupon Edith smiled gravely, and her mother 
gave a little laugh aloud. 

“ I don’t believe he knows anything about it, Edith,” she said. 

“ I was sure of it, mamma,” Edith replied ; while between them 
John stood dumb, not knowing what to think. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The explanation which was given to John Erskine on the high- 
road between Dalrulzian and Lindores, as it is still more important 
to us than to him, must be here set forth at more length. There 
are some happy writers whose mission it is to expound the manners 
and customs of the great. To them it is given to know how duch- 
esses and countesses demean themselves in their moments perchis^ 
and they even catch as it flies the airy grace with which the chit-chat 
of society makes itself look like something of consequence. Gilded 
salons in Belgravia, dainty Boudoirs in Mayfair, not to speak of 
everything that is gorgeous in the rural palaces, which are as so 
many centres of light throughout England — are the scenery in which 
they are accustomed to enshrine the subjects of their fancy. And 
yet, alas 1 to these writers when they have done all, must we add 
that they fail to satisfy their models. When the elegant foreigner, 
or what is perhaps more consonant with the tastes of the day, the 
refined American, ventures to form his opinion of the habits of so- 
ciety from its novels, he is always met with an amused or indignant 
protestation. As if these sort of people knew anything about so- 
ciety ! Lady Adeliza says. It is perhaps as well, under these cir- 
cumstances, to assume a humility, even if we have it not ; and, 
indeed, the present writer has always been shy of venturing into 
exalted regions, or laying profane hands upon persons of quality. 
But when a family of rank comes in our way by necessity, it would 
be cowardice to recoil from the difficulties of the portraiture. 
Should we fail to represent in black and white the native grace, the 
air noble, the exalted sentiments which belong by right to members 


30 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


of the aristocracy, the readers will charitably impute the blame 
rather to the impression made upon our nerves by a superiority so 
dazzling than to any defect of good-will. Besides, in the present 
case, which is a great aid to modesty, the family had been suddenly 
elevated, and were not born in the purple. Lady Lindores was a 
commoner by birth, and not of any very exalted lineage — a woman 
^uite within the range of ordinary rules and instincts ; and even 
Lady Edith had been Miss Edith till within a few years. Their 
honors were still new upon them : they were not themselves much 
used to these honors any more than their humble chronicler ; with 
which preface we enter with diffidence upon the recent history of the 
noble house of Lindores. 

The late earl had been a man unfortunate in his children. His 
sons by his first rnarriage had died one ofter another, inheriting 
their mother’s delicate health. His second wife had brought him 
but one son, a likely and healthy boy ; but an accident, one of those 
simplest risks which hundreds are subject to, and escape daily, car- 
ried this precious boy off in a moment. His father, who had been 
entirely devoted to him, died afterward of a broken heart, people 
said. The next brother, who was in India with his regiment, died 
there almost at the same time, and never knew that he had suc- 
ceeded to the family honors. And thus it was that the Honorable 
Robert Lindores, a poor gentleman, living on a very straitened in- 
come in a cheap French town, with his wife and daughters, and as 
little expecting any such elevation as a poor curate expects to be 
made Archbishop of Canterbury, became Earl of Lindores and the 
head of the family, without warning or preparation. It does not 
perhaps require very much preparation to come to such advance- 
ment ; and the new earl was to the manner born. But Mrs. Lindores, 
who was a woman full of imagination, with nerves and ideas of her 
own, received a considerable shock. She had no objection to being 
a countess ; the coronet, indeed, was pleasant to her as it is to most 
people. She liked to look at it on her handkerchiefs ; there is no 
such pretty ornament. But it startled her mind and shook her 
nerves, just at first. And it made a great, a very great, change in the 
family life. f 

Instead of strolling about as they had done for years, with one 
maid for the mother and daughters, and a shabby cheap French 
servant, who was valet and factotum ; going to all kinds of places ; 
living as they liked ; and though, with many a complaint, getting a 
great deal of pleasure out of their lives, there was an immediate 
shaking of themselves together — a calling in of stray habits and fan- 
cies — a jump into their new place, as of an inexperienced and half- 
alarmed rider, not at all sure how he was to get on with his unac- 
customed steed. This at least was the mood of Lady Lindores. 
The earl knew all about it better than she did. Even to be merely 
the honorable ” had fluttered her senses a little ; and it had never 
occurred to her that anything farther was possible. The family was 
poor — still poor, even when thus elevated, as it were, to the throne ; 
but the poverty of the Honorable Robert was very different from that 



THE LADIES LINDORES. 


31 


of the right honorable earl. In the one case it was actual poverty, 
in the other only comparative. To be sure, it was, when one had 
time to think, distressing and troubling not to have money enough 
to refurnish the castle (the taste of the late lord had been execra- 
ble), and make many improvements which were quite necessary. 

But that was very different from not having money enough to 
possess a settled home of your own anywhere, which had been their 
previous condition. The earl took his measures without a moment’s 
delay. He dismissed the servants who had followed them in their 
poverty, and engaged others in London, who were more proper to 
the, service of a noble family. They travelled quite humbly, indeed 
in their old half-Bohemian way, until they reached London, and 
then all at once cast their slough. The ladies put on their clothes, 
which they had stopped to procure in Paris, and suddenly blossomed 
out (though in deep mourning) into the likeness of their rank. It 
was a thing to make the steadiest heart beat. Young Robin was at 
Chatham, a lieutenant in a marching regiment — a young nobody, 
pleased to be noticed even by the townsfolk ; and lo ! in a moment, 
this insignificant lieutenant became Lord Rintoul. It was like a 
transformation scene ; he came to meet his people when they passed 
through London, and they could scarcely speak to each other when 
they met in their mutual wonder. Poor little Rintoul, all the 
same, poor little beggar! ” Robin Lindores said. To think of the 
poor boy, cut off in a moment, whose death had purchased them all 
these honors, affected the young people with a strange awe, and 
almost remorseful pain. 

They felt as if somehow, without knowing it, they had been the 
cause of that terrible sudden removal of all the hopes that had 
rested on their little cousin’s head. Lady Lindores herself declared 
that she dared not think of her predecessor, the mother of that poor 
boy, the dowager,” alas ! poor lady. The dowager was younger 
than her successor in the family honors, having been a second wife. 
They were all silent with respectful awe when her name was men- 
tioned ; but the earl said pshaw 1 and thought this superfluous. He 
was more used to it ; he had been born in the purple, and now he 
had come, though unexpectedly, to his kingdom, he knew how to fill 
that exalted place. 

The earl was a man of a character which never, up to this time, 
had been estimated as it deserved. He had been quite an easy- 
going sort of person in his former estate. In his youth he was said 
to have been extravagant. Since his marriage — which had been an 
imprudent marriage, in so far that he might perhaps have got a richer 
wife had he tried, but which was wise so far that the income upon 
which they lived chiefly came from that wife — he had let himself go 
quietly enough upon the current, there being no motive to struggle 
against it. The very best that they could make of it was simply to 
get along ; ” and get along they did without putting any force up- 
on their inclinations. He was always able to secure his comforts, 
such as were indispensable ; and as he liked the easier routine of a 
wandering life, he did not object, as he said, to make a sacrifice for 


32 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


the education of his children and their amusement, by living in 
places where the pleasures were cheap and there was no dignity to 
keep up. He had, in this sense, been very complying, both as a 
husband and a father, and had allowed himself to be guided, as his 
family thought, by their wishes quite as much, at least, as by his 
own. He had not in these days been in the least a severe father, 
or shown marks of a worldly mind. What was the use ? The girls 
were too young as yet to have become valuable instruments of am- 
bition, and he had not learned to think of them as anything but 
children. 

But when this extraordinary change came in their existence, the 
easy dilettante — whose wants were limited to a few graceful knick- 
knacks, an elegant little meal, good music, when procurable, and a 
life undisturbed by vulgar cares — altered his very nature, as his 
family thought. Hitherto his wife and his girls had done everything 
for him, aided by the ubiquitous, the handy, the all-accomplished 
Jean or Francois, who was half a dozen men in one — cook, valet, 
footman, pattern man-of-all-work. They arranged the rooms in 
every new place they went to, so that the fact that these rooms were 
those of a hotel or lodging-house should be masked by familiar preN 
tinesses, carried about with them. They gave a careful supervision 
to his meals, and arranged everything so that papa should get the 
best out of his limited existence, and none of its troubles. And as 
there was nothing against Mr. Lindores — no bad repute, but with an 
honorable at his name — every English club, every cercle^ was open 
to him. He always dressed carefully ; now and then he helped a 
wealthier friend to a bargain in the way of art. He saw a great deal 
of society. 

On the whole, perhaps, for a man without ambition, and upon 
whom neither the fate of his children nor the use of his own life 
pressed very heavily, 1 e got as much satisfaction out of his existence 
as most men ; and so night have lived and died, no man knowing 
what was really in him had not poor young Rintoul broken his neck 
over that fence, and dn wn his father with him into the grave. From 
the moment when the I nter, placed calmly by Mr. Lindores’s plate at 
breakfast, as though it meant nothing particular, had its black seals 
broken, he was another man. 

How distinctly they all recollected that scene !— a lofty French 
room, with bare white walls and long, large windows, with the 
green Persians closed to keep out the sunshine, one long line of light 
falling across the polislied floor, where one of these shutters had got 
unfastened ; the spacious coolness in the midst of heat, which is 
characteristic of such houses, like the atmosphere in M. Alma 
Tadema’s pictures ; the white-covered table with its flowers and 
pretty arrangements ; the girls in their white, cool dresses ; and 
Frangois lifting the small silver cover from his master’s favorite dish. 
All the composure and quiet of this interior had been broken in a 
moment. There had been a sudden, stifled cry, and Mr. Lindores, 
pushing the table from him, disordering the dishes, oversetting his 
heavy chair as he sprang to his feet, had finished reading his letter 


THE LADIES LTNDORES, 


33 


standing upright, trembling with excitement, his face flushed and 
crimson. “ What is it? ” they had all cried. ‘‘ Robin ? ” Natur- 
ally, the son who was away was the first thought of the women. 
For a minute the father had made no reply, and their anxiety was 
beyond words. Then he put down the letter solemnly, and went to 
his wife and took her hand. ‘‘ There is nothing wrong with Robin,” 
he said ; but it comes by trouble to others, if not to us. My dear, 
you are the Countess of Lindores ! ” 

It was some minutes before the real meaning of this communica- 
tion penetrated their astonished minds ; and the first proof of un- 
derstanding which the new Lady Lindores gave was to cover her 
face and cry out, Oh, poor boy ! oh, poor Jane, poor Jane ! ’’ with 
a pang at her heart. It was not all grief for the other — could any 
one expect that ? — but the poignant state of emotion which this 
strange, terrible good fortune caused her, had a sharpness of anguish 
in it for the moment. The girls went away hushed and silenced, 
unable to eat their breakfasts, to find some black ribbons instead of 
the bright ones they wore. They wept a few tears as they went to 
their rooms over poor young Rintoul ; but they had known very 
little of the boy, and the strange excitement of the change soon 
crept into their veins. Lady Caroline and Lady Edith ! instead of 
the humble Miss Lindores. No wonder that it went to their heads. 

And from .that moment the new earl was a different man. He 
threw off all his languor, took everything into his own hands. Those 
little economies which it had been so necessary to insist upon yester- 
day were now absurd, notwithstanding that tlie Earls of Lindores 
were far from rich — comparatively. The family came, home rapidly, 
as has been said ; pausing in Paris to get their dresses, to dismiss 
the faithful servants of their poverty, who would be of no use, the 
earl decided, in the change of circumstances. He behaved very well, 
everybody said, to poor Lady Lindores, his brother’s young widow, 
who had thus been left at once widowed and childless. He showed 
every consideration ; ” would not allow her to be hurried ; waited 
her convenience and her pleasure in every way. But, naturally, that 
poor lady was glad to take refuge with her own family in her desola- 
tion ; and within a few months the wandering exile-family, familiar 
with all the cheap watering-places and centres of genteel emigration 
on the Cbntinent, were settled in the greatness of their new position, 
as if they had never known any less elevated circumstances. There 
was a great deal of excitement in the change ; and though it was sad 
at first, no doubt there was a pleasure in hearing Robin addressed 
by the name of Rintoul, and accustoming themselves to their lady- 
ships. But yet, when all was over, it was not perhaps to the girls so 
great an improvement as it appeared on the old life. They were 
not dull — oh no — but still there was a great deal less to do and to 
see than there used to be ; and though they felt, as their mother 
said, that girls with so many resources ought to be occupied and 
happy wherever they went, still the calm of the castle was Very 
different from the stir and movement to which they had been used. 

Up to this time, however, nothing had happened to them except 


2 


34 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


that which was determined by another will than theirs, the inevitable 
results of other events. But they had not been long settled in their 
new and elevated life when it became apparent that other changes 
had happened which were not evoked by any external fate, and 
which were yet more profoundly to affect their life. That Swiss 
holiday had been more important to Carry than any one out of the 
family knew. It had ended in a kind of vague engagement, only 
half sanctioned, yet only half opposed by her family, and which it 
was possible, had Mr. Beaufort been rich enough to marry, would 
not have been opposed at all. 

Had he possessed income enough or courage enough to make the 
venture, the result in all likelihood would, years before, have been 
out of the reach of evil fate ; but while it remained only an engage- 
ment, Mr. Lindores had refused his official sanction to it. And it 
had seemed to Carry, in whose mind the first conscious thought 
after the news of this extraordinary change was to communicate it 
to Edward, that from that very day her father’s aspect had changed 
toward her. He had met her running out to the post with her letter 
in the afternoon, and had given a suspicious glance at it, and 
stopped her, telling her it was not fit she should go out on a day so 
serious. Not a word had been said for weeks and even months 
after, but she knew very well that things were not as before. All 
reference to Beaufort was somehow stopped ; even her mother 
managed to arrest upon her lips all mention of her lover. She was 
herself too timid to open the subject, and gradually a chill certainty 
that he was to be ignored, and pushed aside out of her life, came 
upon the poor girl. How it was that farther dangers dawned upon 
her, it would be hard to tell ; but it is certain that she had divined a 
something — a tightening coil about her helpless feet, a design upon 
her freedom and happiness — before the family had been long at 
Lindores. 

One of the consequences of their great honor and increased state- 
liness of living was, that the two sisters were partially separated, as 
they felt, from each other. They no longer occupied the same room 
as they had done all their lives. They had-now what with their for- 
eign habits they called an apparternejit — a suite of rooms set apart 
for them ; and as Edith was full of curiosity and excitement about the 
new life, and Carry was discouraged and depressed, and felt it odi- 
ous to her, they fell a little apart without any mutual intention or 
consciousness. It was in the beginning of their first winter, when 
the dark days were closing in, that this semi-estrangement first be- 
came apparent to the younger sister. She awoke all at once to the 
consciousness that C^arry was pale ; that she shut herself up very 
much, and more than ever devoted herself to her writing ; that she 
composed a great many little poems (for she was the genius of the 
family), and often had a suspicion of redness about her eyes. 
TTiis discovery was instantaneous. Edith had never been awakened 
to any but the,most simple troubles of life ; and it had not occurred 
to her to imagine that there was anything beneath the headache 
which her sister so often took refuge in. But her mind, when it be- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


35 


gan to act, was rapid and keen. It became apparent to her that she 
had been losing sight of Carry, and that Carry was not happy. The 
progress from one step to another of her solicitude for her sister was 
rapid as lightning. She remembered everything in a moment, 
though these causes of sorrow had been altogether out of her 
thoughts before. She remembered that not a word had been said 
of Mr. Beaufort for months ; that Carry had ceased altogether to 
speculate as to anything that might happen in the future ; that all 
this was as a closed book between them nowadays. 

As soon as she arrived at this conviction, Edith found herself 
ready to interfere for good or evil. She went into the room where 
Carry was writing her little poetries, with something of the effect of 
a fresh light wind, carrying refreshment, but also a little disturbance, 
with her. She stooped over her sister with a caressing arm round 
her neck, and plunged at once into the heart of the subject. It was 
a still, dull afternoon of early winter, and nobody was by. Carry,” 
she said, all at once — Carry, it is so long since we have said any- 
thing to each other ! I wanted to ask you about — Edward ! ” Upon 
this, for all answer, Carry fell a crying, but after a while sobbed 
forth, “ I will never give him up I ” 

Give him up ! ” cried Edith, surprised. She had what her 
mother called a positive nature, much less romantic, much less sen- 
sitive, than her sister. The idea of giving up had never entered her 
mind. ‘‘ Give him up ! — no, of course not. I never thought of such 
a thing ; but I am afraid it will be harder than ever with papa.” 

‘‘Oh, Edith, it will be unpossible P' Caroline said. And then 
the two sisters looked at each other — the one astonished, indig- 
nant, full of resistance ; the other pale, drooping, without vigor or 
hope.” 

“ What does impossible mean ? ” said the younger, not with any 
affectation or grandiloquence ; for probably she had never heard of 
any heroic utterance on the subject. “ You mean very, very hard. 
So it will be. I have wanted to speak to you since ever we came 
here. I want to know what he says himself, and if papa has said 
anything, and what mamma thinks. We don’t seem to live together 
now,” she added, with a clouded countenance. “ It’s always, ‘ Oh, 
Lady Caroline has gone out,’ or, ‘ Her ladyship is in the library 
with my lord.’ It seemed very nice at first, but I begin to hate 
ladyships and lordships with all my heart.” 

“So do I,” said Caroline, with a sigh. 

“ If you marry a man without a title, couldn’t you give it up ? 
Perhaps one wouldn’t like that either, now,” said the girl, candidly. 
“ It was i2.r,far nicer, far more natural, in the old days ; but per- 
haps one wouldn’t like to go back.” 

“ I suppose not,” said Carry, drearily. She was not a beautiful- 
girl, as in her romantic position she ought to have been. Her nose 
was too large ; her complexion deficient ; her eyes were gray, 
sweet, and thoughtful, but not brilliant or shining. Her figure had 
the willowy grace of youth, but nothing more imposing. She had a 
very sweet, radiant smile when she was happy ; this was the chief 


^6 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


attraction of her face ; but at present she was not happy, and her 
pale, gentle countenance was not one to catch the general eye. 

‘‘But I hope you are going to make a stand, Carry,” said the 
energetic little Edith. “You won’t, surely — you can’t be so lache 
as to give in ? /would not ! — not if it cost me my life ! ” 

“ Ah, if it was a question of one’s life! but no one wants your 
life,” said (Sarry, shaking her head. “ No one will touch us, or 
lock us up, or any of these old-fashioned things. If they only 
would ! The poets say ‘ I could die for you^’ as if that was difficult ! 
Oh no, it is far harder — far harder to live.” 

“ Carry, you have been thinking a great deal about it, then ?” 

“ What else could I think about ? Since the first moment papa 
looked at me that day — you remember that day ? — I knew in a mo- 
ment what he meant. He gave me just one glance. You know he 
never said that he would consent.” 

Edith’s youthful countenance gathered a sympathetic cloud. 
“ Papa has been so changed ever since,” she said. 

“ He never would allow that he had consented even before — 
and while we were all poor, what did it matter? So long as he does 
not ask me to ” 

“To what?” Edith asked, with a wondering perception of the 
shudder which ran over her sister’s slight figure. “Are you cold, 
Car ? ” 

“ To — marry some one else ! ” cried poor Caroline, with a heavy 
sigh — so heavy that it was almost a groan. 

Edith sprung to her feet with indignant vehemence. “ That is 
not possible ; nobody could be so cowardly, so cruel, as that,” she 
said, clasping her hands together. “ Carry, you speak as if papa 
was a bad man ; you slander him ; it is not true — it is not true ! ” 

“ He would not think it cruel,” said Caroline, shaking her head 
sadly. “ He would not mean any harm ; he would say to himself 
that it was for my good.” 

Her despondency quenched the passion and energy of the young- 
er girl. Carry’s drooping head and heavy eyes were enough to 
damp even the liveliest courage. “Are you thinking of — any one 
in particular ? ” Edith said, in hushed and tremulous tones. 

Carry put out her hands as if to push some spectre away. “ Oh, 
don’t ask me — don’t ask me ! I don’t know ; I can’t tell you 1 ” she 
cried. 

What could Edith say? She was appalled. The fresh, 
inexperienced heart received a first lesson in the mysterious evils of 
life. She who had fretted and chafed so at the partial separation 
that had arisen between them, she was glad of a pretext to leave 
her sister. She could scarcely believe this to be possible, and yet 
so it was. Nor did she wish to run to her mother with her discovery, 
to appeal to her against Carry’s misconception, against the mon- 
strous character of the suggestion altogether, as would have been 
her first impulse in any other case. No ; she was convinced of the 
reality of it, little as she desired to be convinced. 

A gleam of painful light seemed to fall across the new tenor of 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


37 


their life. She thought for a moment that she saw the very earth, 
solid and unyielding, break into dangerous pits and chasms before 
her feet. The pain of this discovery was twofold— both poignant, 
yet one worse than the other. To think that her father, whom she 
had hitherto loved and trusted, not with any excess of devotion, but 
yet with an honest confidence that he would ask nothing wrong, 
nothing unreasonable from his children, should thus threaten to be- 
come a domestic tyrant, an enemy of truth, was terrible ; biit still 
more terrible was the conviction which overwhelmed the girl that 
Carry, with all her imagination and feeling — Carry, the poet of the 
family, the first one to have a romance and a lover — would not have 
strength to resist any attempted coercion. Oh, if it had only been 
me ! ” Edith said to herself, clinching her hands tight. But then 
she had no Edward, no romance — she was fancy free ; even were it 
possible to force her into any connection she disliked (which Edith 
did not think it would be), at all events she could not be made false 
to another. But Carry — Carry, who was all heart — to force her to 
deny that heart would be doubly cruel. 

Little Edith woke out of her careless youth to see this wonderful 
and great danger at her very side, with all that bewilderment of feel- 
ing which attends the first disclosure of the evils in life. She could 
not believe it, and yet she knew it was true. She remembered tones 
in her father’s voice, lights in his eyes, which she never seemed to 
have understood before. Was this what they meant ? that when his 
time and opportunity came he would be a tyrant, a remorseless and 
unfaltering ruler, suffering no rebellion ?' Edith trembled a little. 
Perhaps she, too, might fall under that despotism one day. But she 
did not feel afraid of herself. ‘‘ Oh, if it had only been me I ” she 
said, ungrammatical, as excitement generally is. It would be hard 
to say what ground she had for her self-confidence. Carry was the 
genius of the family, and little Edith only the youngest, the house- 
hold pet, whom nobridy regarded as in a position to make decisions 
or form opinions for herself. Why was it to her eyes that this sud- 
den insight had been given ? It is not usually a happy gift. Blessed 
are they, we may rather say, who can deceive themselves — whose 
eyes are made blind, and not more fatally clear, by love. Edith 
hastened out-of-doors, out of sight or speech of any one, to try if 
she could escape from this revelation which had opened upon her, 
so much against he:; will. 

It was a misty, dull day, with a great deal of moisture in the air 
— moisture which seemed to communicate itself to Edith’s eyes, and 
get into her throat. She hastened down the path which wound 
through the birches, the poetical birks of Lindores,” to the river 
lying far below, and already sending a soft sound of running water 
to soothe her. About half way down was a great beech-tree, round 
which a seat had been placed. Here there was a view, not of the 
wide champaign, like that at Dalrulzian, but of a portion of the high- 
road just where if; began to mount the hill toward the castle. On 
the other side lay the river, visible at the foot of the bank, and run- 
ning somewhat stLong and wild under the cliffs on the opposite side, 


38 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


which threw it into deep shadow. But it was not the river, though 
so much the more beautiful of the two, it was the high-road which 
attracted Edith’s attention. As she stood looking out upon it some 
one passed, riding slowly along, but turning his head to catch the 
first glimpse of the castle. His appearance seemed to throw a sud- 
den light upon her thoughts. He was a heavy, large man, upon a 
powerful black horse — an apparition big enough to be identified 
even at that distance. The ladies had all been very free in their 
remarks upon this representative of their county neighbors. They 
had not given him a very encouraging reception, yet he had repeated 
his visits, too stolid, they had thought, to perceive that he was not 
wanted. As Edith stood and gazed at him, with the blood curdling 
about her heart, it flashed upon her that her father had given no 
countenance to their criticisms. He had told them that Mr. Tor- 
rance was one of the richest commoners in Scotland, and Tintd such 
a house as any one might be proud to possess. She had paid little 
attention to these words at the time, but they seemed to repeat 
themselves in the very air now. It was a day of revelation to Edith. 
She saw all that it meant, and foresaw all it was coming to, with a 
gleam of terrible insight. Oh no, no I she moaned to herself, in a 
kind of helpless protest against fate. 


CHAPTER V. 

Mr. Torrance of Tinto was the representative of an old county 
family, but he would not have been the richest commoner in Scot- 
land if he had been no more than this. A variety of other circum- 
stances, however, had combined to bring about this effect, and ele- 
vate a man who was no better, at the best that could be said for 
him, than a rude yeoman-sportsman at soul, into a person of the 
greatest local importance and almost national notability. The pre- 
vious Torrance of Tinto, a man of some rough practical power, had 
allied himself to some degree in business, and to a much greater 
degree in life, with a great railway contractor — one of the men who, 
coming from nothing, have made colossal fortunes, and found ad- 
mittance for their children, if not for themselves, into the foremost 
ranks of society. Mr. Torrance married this man’s daughter, and 
all the money which the original navvy had quarried out of the bow- 
els of the earth, or gathered from its surface, went to increase the 
lands and the power of Tinto, where this daughter, his only child, a 
woman with the magnificent ideas of expenditure which enormous 
wealth so naturally brings along with it, disposed herself to reign like 
a princess, making her husband’s old house the centre of a new 
palace, fit for a duke at least. 

The old man, her father, always thrifty and sparing in his own 
person, would have her stinted in nothing ; and perhaps, had she 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


39 


lived long, her husband would have had little enough left him of the 
huge fortune which she had brought into the family. But fortunately 
(for the family), after she had alarmed him beyond measure by un- 
bounded expenditure for a few years, and had completed the new 
house and filled it with costly furniture, in all of which her father 
encouraged her, the death of both within a year of each other re- 
lieved the owner of Tinto of his fears, and left him free to complete 
the training of his son as he pleased. He made him much such a 
man as he had himself been, but without the brains, which are not 
transmitted so easily as money. 

Patrick Torrance had indeed been sent to Oxford, to have the 
regulation mark stamped upon him as an educated man ; but those 
were days in which so much as this meant was easier than now ; 
and it is not very hard, even now, as may be seen. He came back 
more horsey, more doggy than he had been before, if possible — a 
man without an intellectual taste or higher instinct, bored to death, 
as he himself avowed, with the grand house, full of pictures, and 
statues, and marble, and porcelain, which the taste of his mother 
had accumulated. Never was such a magnificent place in the quie- 
tude of such a homely country. The daughter of the railway man 
was as extreme in her taste for art as the daughter of one of her 
father’s navvies might have been in dress. There was not a wall, 
not a passage or staircase, that was not laden with decoration. 
Great artists had designed the chimney-pieces and cornices. The 
velvet, the satin, the embroidery, were all the most costly, and, 
according to the lights of that period, the most correct, that money 
could buy. 

The old man, whose money had bought all this, went about the 
gorgeous rooms rubbing his hands with a continual chuckle of satis- 
faction so long as he lived ; and the poor woman who had created 
the luxurious house swept through in dresses to correspond^ with 
satisfaction not less than if she had been a daughter of the Medici — 
who, to be sure, made their money in business too. But when that 
fine Renaissance lady died, and all her friends were scattered, and 
the place fell back into the possession of the commonplace country 
laird and his boy, coming in ruddy from the fields or damp from 
the hill, afraid to tread in their shooting-boots on the luxurious car- 
pets or throw themselves down in the satin chairs, the incongruity 
of the establishment was manifest to every eye. Mr. Torrance, the 
father, had been deeply impressed by the cost of everything his wife 
had bought and planned. He had been horrified and indignant in 
the first instance ; but when it had been proved that he had no 
power to resist, and that the money must be expended for all these 
luxuries, he had taken what satisfaction he could from the price. 

Do you know what she gave for that?” he would say; ‘Gt’s all 
dash’d extravagance ! I cannot away with it ; but it was her doing, 
and, as she had plenty, she had to please herself.” It was in this 
way that he spoke of his wife. And when she died, the splendid 
house she had built was shut up, not from sentiment, but because 
the set of rooms still remaining, which belonged to the old house of 


40 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


Tinto, was much more in harmony with the habits of the master of 
the house. 

Now that he, too, was dead, his son followed his example in pre- 
ferring the old den of the race. But he had more appreciation of 
the dignity of owning a house such as no one in the country could 
hold a candle” to. The fine decorations had not all stood the 
neglect of twenty years, but still there was enough of magnificence 
to overawe the district ; and Patrick Torrance had enough of his 
mother’s blood in him to enjoy the consciousness of so much luxury 
and costliness. He lived in the old library, which was low and dingy, 
and looked out upon the dark bit of shrubbery behind the house, 
and the road that led to the stables ; but periodically he threw the 
grand, empty rooms open, and had a great dinner-party, or a ball, 
which excited all the gentry for miles round. It would be vain to 
say that there was not on these occasions more excitement than was 
natural solely in view of a great entertainment. While society is 
constituted as it is, it will not be possible that a great matrimonial 
prize, such as Sir Patrick Torrance unquestionably was, should thus 
be shown, as open to public competition, without a certain excite- 
ment. 

If a great post worth thousands a year could be won by the most 
attractive and brilliant appearance in a ball-room, what a flutter 
there would be among the golden youth of society ! and the master 
of Tinto was more valuable than most of the very finest appoint- 
ments. He was as good as a Viceroyship of India, without the 
necessity of expatriation. Consequently, it is not to be supposed 
that the young ladies of the neighborhood could prepare for their 
appearance in these gilded if somewhat tarnished halls of his 
without a good deal of agitation, or that the mothers, or even 
the fathers, of possible competitors could escape some share 
of the same excitement. Some of the girls, let us do them the jus- 
tice to say, were as much alarmed lest Pat Torrance, as he was 
called, should cast his big projecting eyes upon them, as others were 
anxious for that notice. He was not in himself much adapted to 
please a maiden’s eye. He was very dark, strongly bearded, with 
large eyes d fietir de tete and somewhat bloodshot. His friends 
maintained that he had a good figure,” and it certainly was tall 
and strong. His voice was as large as his person and somewhat 
hoarse — a deep bass, which made a vibration in the air. He was an 
excellent shot and hunted indefatigably, though it was beginning to 
be said, notwithstanding his youth, that Pat was too heavy for dis- 
tinction in the hunting-field. 

With all these qualities, he had an eye to his interest, rich though 
he was ; and, though not clever, was said to be very fortunate in his 
investments, and to keep a careful hand over his money. Now and 
then he would be lavish, outdoing all that was known in these parts 
in the way of extravagance ; but, for the most part, he lived as his 
father had done before him, in the old rooms of the old mansion- 
house of Tinto, where not a carpet or a curtain had been removed 
since the time of his grandfather. There was, perhaps, a touch of 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


41 


humor, somehow struck out by the contact of the two races, which 
made the contrast of these two manners of living pleasant to his 
fancy and to his rude and elementary pride ; or perhaps it was mere 
instinct, and had no meaning in it at all — the habits of the limited 
and uncultured countryman, diversified by that delight in an oc- 
casional ‘‘blow out ” which is the compensation of the navvy for 
his rude toils. 

There was no doubt that from the time of his father’s death, 
which occurred when he was about twenty-eight, Pat Torrance had 
made up his mind to marry. And he had inspected all the mar- 
riageable girls in the country with a serious intention which disgust- 
ed some and amused others, and filled a few with breathless hope. 
In the latter class were ladies of very different pretensions indeed, 
from Miss Webster of Thrums, who was the greatest rider in the 
country, and never wanting when anything was going on, down to 
the bold, handsome, black-eyed daughter of the landlord of the Bear 
at Dunearn, which was the inn Mr. Torrance used when he went in- 
to the county town. He was just as likely, people thought, to make 
such a match as any other ; his style of courtship was more in har- 
mony with a bar-room than a drawing room. This conviction made 
the balls at Tinto less exciting to the feminine community generally 
as time went on ; but still there is never any telling what caprice 
may sway a sultan’s choice. 

And, alas ! it is a fact that, whether by their own will or by that 
of their parents, Pat Torrance might have married almost any lady 
in the county. He was not himself to them, but such a cluster of 
worldly advantages as scarcely any mortal woman could resist. He 
was, as we have said, far beyond in value the best of the appoint- 
ments for which they could not, and their brothers could try. He 
meant a fine position, a magnificent house, a great fortune. To be 
sure, there was a drawback to this, which only a few acknowledged. 
When Mrs. Sempill pointed out to her daughter Agnes, whom he 
had honored with some passing notice, that in case she married him 
she would have “ everything that heart could desire — at least, every- 
thing that money could buy ” — Agnes, who was a clever girl, put 
forth a condition. “ I should have just as much as Pat Torrance 
thought proper of the things that money can buy,” the young woman 
said, with sudden insight. I am afraid, however, that Agnes Sem- 
pill would have married him all the same, her family being so poor, 
if he had put himself at her disposal. But he did not, and she was 
glad. Indeed, he made himself of all the greater importance in the 
county that he came to no decision, but went on giving his balls 
three or four times a year, and examining with a critical eye every 
girl who appeared on the horizon, every new debtitante. And he 
was asked everywhere in those days. His importance was fully 
recognized. 

This was the condition in which things were when the new family 
came to the castle. Mr. Torrance was one of the first callers, partly 
because his pride, as at once the head of an old family and the rich- 
est man in the county, made him eager to assert his position with 


42 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


the new earl as a leader of the local society — a position which not 
even the chances their daughters might have of sharing it would 
have prevailed on the other county magnates to permit him — and 
partly because of the new candidates for his favor who were to be 
found in the family of Lindores. Notwithstanding the prevalent 
idea that Bessie Runciman, at the Black bear in Dunearn, had just 
as good a chance for the prize as any competitor, nothing could be 
farther from the fact or the intentions of the hero. His determina- 
tion all along had been to procure himself a wife who should be in 
harmony, not so much with himself as with the grandeur of his house 
and what he believed to be his position ; and the hunting lady and 
the publican’s daughter had been equally out of the question. For 
himself, he might have liked either of them well enough ; but as a 
matter of fact, it was not too much refinement, but not refinement 
enough which this rude squire found among his country neighbors. 
None of them was fine enough for Tinto. He wanted somebody 
who would be at home in the grand rooms overloaded with decoration 
— who would be, if possible, superior to the killing splendor which 
made himself feel so small. And no woman yet had impressed Pat 
as sufficiently niagnificent for this purpose. He wanted some one 
more imposing — a lady of Tinto who might, as he desired in his 
heart, receive the Prince of Wales on occasion, or even the Queen 
herself. 

When he paid his first visit to Lindores, the earl alone received 
him, and he had no chance of inspecting the daughters of the house ; 
but he had met them as he rode home again, coming back from their 
drive in the little pony-carriage of which they had just become pos- 
sessed. Edith, new to all these delights, was driving her sister ; and 
her bright little face, full of life and smiles, turned curiously upon 
him as he stood aside on his big black horse to let them pass. 

But that was not what caught his eye. Beside her was a pale and 
gentle countenance, unlike anything which had hitherto been pre- 
sented to his notice. Pat’s heart, if he had a heart, or the big pulse 
that did service for it, gave a bound as he looked. It seemed to him 
at the first glance that this new face was more aristocratic, more dis- 
tinguished, for not being pretty. The lilies and roses of the other 
were familiar to him. Bright eyes and fine complexions were by no 
means rare in the county. They, were to be found everywhere, in 
the cottages as well as in the castles. He was not impressed by 
them. The smiles and animation were common things ; but Lady 
Caroline, with her gentle paleness, her slim form pliant and bending 
— even her nose, which was a little too long — was the impersonation 
of refinement and rank, and fine superiority. His imagination, if 
he had an imagination, took fire. He thought he could see her 
moving about with languid grace through his fine salons^ far more 
fine than they, lending them an air of delicacy and importance which 
they had never possessed before. He felt himself to be ‘^struck” 
by Lady Caroline as he never had been struck” till now. That 
was rank, he said to himself admiringh' To be sure, rank was what 
he had wanted ; he had never realized ii before, but now he perceived 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


43 


it as plain as daylight. He had been wiser than he was aware of in 
his fastidiousness ; and now he saw suddenly presented before him 
the very object of which he had been in search. Lady Caroline Tor- 
rance ! — that was what it was. 

This chance meeting, and the instant conviction that followed, 
had taken place some time before the interview between the sisters 
which we have described. How it was that the suitor communicated 
his wishes to the earl, or the earl to poor Carry, it is impossible to 
tell — or if, indeed, up to this time, any communication had been 
made on the subject. Most likely there had been no communica- 
tion ; but the proposal, which turned the light into darkness for Carry, 
was in the air, overshadowing everything. Her father saw it in the 
dark face of Pat Torrance, and she surmised it in her father’s eyes. 

Before a word had been said she knew her fate, struggling dumbly 
against it like a creature fascinated and magnetized in the grip of a 
monster, but without any possibility or hope of escape. There was 
something more terrible in the silent certainty than there would have 
been in any conflict. She fplt herself sucked in as to a whirlpool, 
overpowered— all her forces taken from her in the giddy rush with 
which the days and hours were carrying her on, irresistible, to that 
climax. It was this fatal consciousness which made her cry out, I 
will never give him up ! ” which was the cry, not of resolution, but 
of despair. All that she could do in her sick and failing soul was to 
grasp at and cling to the weeds on the bank, while the current car- 
ried her wildly on, plucking them out of her hands. Edith, who was 
of so different a nature, stood by appalled, astonished, not knowing 
how to account for her sister’s helplessness. She was positive, as her 
mother said, not visionary — incapable either of divining what was 
going to happen or of yielding to it. Why Carry could not simply 
make up her mind to refuse, to stand fast, to resist whatever powers 
might be brought to bear upon her, was a thing which Edith could 
not understand. 

And, stranger still. Lady Lindores had not even found it out. 
She disliked Mr. Torrance, and made no secret of her dislike. If 
that is your type of a Scotch laird, I cannot say I like the species,” 
she said ; eliciting a soft Oh, mamma ! ” from Edith, who remem- 
bered very well a statement of an entirely contrary character which 
her mother had once made. “ If young Erskine is a’type of a young 
Scotch laird, I -am disposed to fall in love with the class,” was what 
Lady Lindores had then said. Edith remembered it distinctly, but 
gave her tongue a little malicious bite, and would not recall it to her 
mother’s mind ; for was not young Erskine coming back ? But Lady 
Lindores’s feeling about Torrance was more than passive. She took 
care to let him see that he was not a favorite in the house. She won- 
dered audibly, even after the eyes of Edith had been opened, what 
that odious man wanted here ; and indeed did all but refuse to ask 
him to a diner intime at which her husband desired his presence, 
Torrance of Tinto,” she cried, with a cloud on her face ; why 
Tor’^ance of Tinto ? He has already dined here. Why should we 
have him again ? ” 


44 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


Why not ? ” said the earl, with a still deeper shadow on his face. 
Lady Lindores saw very clearly when her attention was aroused ; but 
she was a high-minded woman, slow to be awakened to suspicion, 
and scorning to think evil. It seemed to her an evidence of a poor 
nature to suppose anyone else capable of an act you would not have 
done yourself. 

Why not ? I think that jumps at the eyes,” she said. It was 
Lady Lindores’s weakness to employ idioms which, being translated 
idioms, sounded very strange to ordinary ears. This was so far com- 
prehensible because she had lived abroad the greater part of her life 
— and she thought the polyglot chatter which is so common, espec- 
ially among the English abroad, vulgar ; so she translated her French, 
and thought it less objectionable. That jumps at the eyes,” she 
said ; he is not a friend of the house — only a recent acquaintance 
— and he has dined here already. Why have him again ? He is not 
an attractive person. You cannot care for him, Robert ; and he is 
no favorite with the girls.” 

The girls must learn to receive the people I approve of,” said 
the earl, or we shall quarrel. You must make them aware of 
that.” 

‘‘Quarrel! — for the sake of Mr. Torrance! That is carrying 
clanship a great way.” 

“ There is no clanship in it. You ought to know better, my dear. 
Your English fallacies are quite out of place here. If I had a clan 
(which I have not — we are purely Norman, not Celtic at all), Pat 
Torrance could have had as little to do with it as John Smith.” 

“ My dear Robert,” said Lady Lindores, for she had not learned 
to address her husband by his title, “ you take it’ very seriously. I 
meant your kindness for your own people. But for a kind prejudice, 
which I admire and respect, for your old neighbors, you never would 
put up with a being like this Tinto, as they call him — a rich fox-hun- 
ter, with the mind of a ploughman.” 

“ You will oblige me, Mary,” said her husband, coldly, “ by re- 
straining your opinion — at all events until you have a better right to 
express it. What do you know of Pat Torrance ? I should very 
much prefer that you did not commit yourself on the subject. You 
might regret it after.” 

“ Commit myself ! — regret it 1 ” Lady Lindores gazed at her hus- 
band with consternation. She had absolutely no guide to what he 
could mean ; but as he stood to his point and would not yield, and 
as one must certainly yield when such a question arises, she found 
herself unwillingly obliged to give in. She was behind her children 
in comprehension, strange as jt seems to say so. Lady Lindores had 
not been unfavorable to Beaufort’s claims when first he made his 
suit to Carry ; but she had been perhaps a little disappointed in him 
as the years passed on. He had not shown the energy, the deter- 
mination, which a man in such circumstances ought to show. He 
had made no passionate effort to obtain his bride, such as Carry’s 
mother felt her child was worth. And it was a long time now since 
Lady Lindores had taken any notice of the lingering engagement 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


45 


which her husband had never positively sanctioned, but which had 
lingered on for kyear or two, coming to nothing. She had thought it 
best not to interfere. Perhaps Mr. Beaufort might think it his duty 
to release Carry, now that her position was so much changed. The 
mother did not feel that she could ask him to do so ; but if anything 
had happened to the tardy lover — had he been ill, or died, or proved 
fickle, she would have felt that Providence was interfering on their 
behalf. In the meantime she thought it the best policy to say noth- 
ing about it. And it was this reticence, which she intended for wis- 
dom, which prevented any explanation between them, and kept her 
ignorant of what even Edith knew. It did not occur to her to con- 
nect her child, so delicate and refined, with the rough and coarse 
squire, whom she could not tolerate. How her husband could put 
up with him Lady Lindores could not conceive. He certainly meant 
something by it, she thought ; but what did he mean ? Was it some 
scheme of tactics in respect to the next election ? which already, she 
knew, gave Lord Lindores great concern. Perhaps the earl, who 
had a devouring ambition, now that he found an opening for it, 
thought it well to have the richest man in the county under his in- 
fluence. This was all that she had yet divined. ‘‘ Your father in- 
sists upon having that Mr. Torrance,” she said to the girls. What 
he can see in him I cannot imagine. But that does not look at us. 
We are not called upon to make martyrs of ourselves for papa’s po- 
litical friends.” 

Carry looked up eagerly as her mother spoke. Political ! ” 
she said, with a quiver of hopeful eagerness in her voice. Is that 
the reason ? ” This eager tone and broken question would have 
made Lady Lindores wonder had she not been full of the subject 
from her own point of view.- 

‘‘What else?” she said. “You cannot suppose a man like 
your father can find anything else in Mr. Torrance to attract him. 
Politics are very entrancing, but, like necessity, they bring you ac- 
quainted with strange bedfellows. Papa thinks, no doubt, that he 
ought to turn his influence to account.” 

“ Oh, if that is the reason ! ” said Carry, clasping her hands to- 
gether, with something like an ecstasy of prayer and thankfulness in 
her face. Lady Lindores, though she thought the emotion excessive 
— but then Carry was always visionary — understood that her daugh- 
ter’s delicate soul had been wounded by her father’s regard for so 
unattractive a person. She patted her child upon the cheek ten- 
derly. 

“You must not consider yourself responsible for all the things 
we do in the prosecution of our several parts,” she said. “ I feel, for 
my own part, that I take a great deal too much notice of old Gar- 
dener. I am getting much too fond of him. This is more innocent, 
I allow, than your father’s fancy for Mr. Torrance, for I don’t insist 
on asking old Gardener to dinner.” 

“That I never should object to!” cried Carry, kissing her 
mother with sudden enthusiasm. She was cheered beyond measure 
by the comparison, and by Lady Lindores’s absolute ignorance of 


46 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


any other pretension on the part of Torrance. Perhaps she had 
been deceiving herself, and attributing to her father intentions that 
had never entered his mind. Carry was too thankful to think that 
this might be how it was. But Edith, the clear-sighted, avoided her 
sister’s eye. She made no comment on what her mother said. 
Edith felt that, however others might be deceived, she knew. 


CHAPTER VL 

Alas ! it was not very long before everybody knew. The de- 
meanor of Pat Torrance at the dinner, to which Lady Lindores had 
been so reluctant to ask him, gave much occasion for thought to the 
other guests, who knew the man and his ways. These said to each 
other that Pat had put his foot. in at last — that he had made his 
choice, and thrown his handkerchief at almost the only woman in 
the county who was not sure to respond to it. Nothing could have 
been colder or more repellent than Lady Caroline was to this great 
matrimonial prize — the idol whom they all bowed down to, though 
some with minds which rebelled against the rude and ungodlike di- 
vinity. Among these interested lookers-on were some who rejoiced 
to see that he was likely to be made to see his place,” and sub- 
mit to the humiliation of refusal ; and some who, conscious that 
in their own families there were worshippers who would not have 
refused to bow down, were angry with poor Carry for setting up ” 
to be so much better than her neighbors. The most sagacious of 
these, however, reserved their judgment. There was something in 
the demonstration with which the earl brought Pat forward and 
patted him on the back, something, too, of pain in poor Lady Carry’s 
mild eyes, which made these more profound observers pause. 

The Lindores were poor. There were two daughters to provide 
for ; and it was not a matter to be settled so easily, or which the 
parents would allow to turn entirely on a young girl’s fancy. And 
then she was not even pretty, and she had got into the twenties — 
not a mere girl, with all the world before her. The wise would not 
give any opinion on the subject. They shook their heads and re- 
fused to commit themselves. But this was exactly what Pat Tor- 
rance did. He was so satisfied that here at last he had got every- 
thing he wanted, that he displayed his decision in Carry’s favor from 
the first day. He made a spectacle of himself to the whole county, 
looking on with the keenest attention; and oh, how pleased society 
would have been in the district had he been once for all made an ex- 
ample of — made a fool of, as they said — held up to public scorn and 
ridicule as a rejected suitor ! 

As the wooing went on, the desire for such a consummation, the 
anticipation of it, grew daily in intensity ; and it was not very long 
doubtful. One of the usual great balls was given at Tinto, which 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


47 


was specially in honor of the new-comers, and took place as soon as 
they were out of their mourning. It was evidently a crisis in the life 
of the master of the house, and to the greater part of the guests all 
the interest of a highly exciting drama was mingled with the milder 
impulses of amusement. Lady Caroline, everybody said, had never 
looked less well. She was very pale— it was even said that freckles, 
caused by her sinful exposure of her face to all the elements during 
the summer, diminished the sheen of her ordinarily white fore- 
head— her nose was longer than ever. But all this only increased, 
to her admirer, the charm of her presence. She was independeni 
of beauty. Though she was very simply dressed — too simply for a 
lady of rank — yet the air with which she moved about these fine 
rooms was (Pat thought) such as no one else who had ever been 
there had possessed. She was superior to them, as she was superior 
to the lilies and the roses, the wreathed smiles and shining eyes of 
the other girls. He followed her about with demonstrations of de- 
votion which no one could mistake. He would have danced with 
nobody but her, in the most marked abandonment of all his duties 
as host, would she have permitted him. Even when he danced with 
others his eyes followed her, and the only talk he vouchsafed to his 
partners was about Lady Car, as he called her, with offensive fa- 
miliarity and a sort of intoxication. 

As for poor Lady Caroline herself, it was apparent to every one 
that she retreated continually into out-of-the-way corners — hiding 
herself behind the old maids and dowagers, who were never left out 
of such gatherings, and liked to come and look on and criticise the 
girls, and tell how things had been done in their day. Several of 
these old ladies, distressed to see a girl not dancing, had betrayed 
poor Carry’s hiding-place by their kind efforts to get her a partner; 
and the result had been two or three times that she was thus deliv- 
ered over into the very clutches of the wolf. 

Mr. Patrick,” one of those kind ladies said, rising from her seat 
and taking hold of his arm as he prowled about, wondering where 
Carry could have disappeared to, ‘Mo you no think it’s discredit- 
able to the county that a young leddy newly come among us, and a 
person of rank — and what is better, a sweet young creature — should 
be left sitting down the whole night and get no dancing ? ” 

It was on this occasion that Miss Barbara Erskine won the heart 
of the persecuted girl. She said to her in a strong whisper, which went 
through Carry’s ear like a — skewer (the simile is undignified, but 
suits the fact) — My dear, there’s that eediot, Jean Sempill, draw- 
ing attention to you. If you want to get out of the way, slip away 
"behind me ; there’s a door there that leads into the corridor, and 
so you can get back to your mother. Stay by your mother — that’s 
your safest way.” Thus Carry was delivered for the moment. But, 
alas ! her mother could not protect her effectually. When Pat Tor- 
rance came boldly up with his dark face glowing, and his projecting 
eyes ready, as a spectator remarked, to jump out of his head, and 
said, This is our dance,” what could any one do for her ? Lady 
Lindores had become alarmed, not knowing what to make of Carry’s 


48 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


agitation ; but even a mother in these circumstances can do so little. 

I am afraid she is tired, Mr. Torrance,” Lady Lindores said ; but 
Carry’s arm was already in his. She had not presence of mind even 
to take advantage of such an excuse. 

When he brought her back, however, to her mother’s side, no- 
body could have helped seeing that something had happened. Poor 
Carry was as white as her dress ; she seemed scarcely able to hold 
herself upright, and sunk down by her mother’s side as if she neither 
saw nor heard anything that was going on round her. On the other 
hand, Pat Torrance was crimson, his eyes were rolling in his head. 
He said, almost roughly, “You were right. Lady Lindores, Lady 
Car is tired ; but I make no doubt she will be herself again to- 
morrow.” 

It was a curious speech to make, and there was a tone of threat- 
ening and anger in his somewhat elevated voice which roused the live- 
liest displeasure in the mind of Lady Lindores ; but he was gone 
before she could say anything. 

“ What is the matter?” she said, taking her daughter’s hand. 

Rouse yourself. Carry ; everybody is staring. What has hap- 
pened? ” 

“'Oh, nothing, nothing! Oh, mamma, let us go home!” the 
poor girl cried. Her lips, her very eyelids, trembled. She looked 
as if she were about to faint. 

Lady Lindores was glad to see her husband approaching ; but 
he too had a threatening and stern look. She called him to her, 
and begged him to ask for the carriage. “ Carry is quite ill,” she 
said. “ If you will stay with Edith, I can send it back for you — but 
poor Car has looked like a ghost all night.” 

“ She has looked much more like a fool — as she is,” said her 
father, between his set teeth ; but at last he consented that she 
should be taken home, seeing the state of collapse in which she was. 
He took her down-stairs, supporting her on his arm, which was nec- 
essary, as she could scarcely walk ; butwhen they skirted the dance, in 
which the master of the house was performing, talking loudly and* 
laughing with forced merriment all the time, the earl, though he was 
a well-bred man, could not help giving his daughter’s arm a sharp 
pressure, which hurt her. “I might have known you would behave 
like a fool,” he said, in a low undertone which nobody but Carry 
could hear. 

She wavered for a moment, like a young tree in the wind, but 
clung to him and hurried past, replying nothing. Lady Lindores 
following, formed her own conclusions, though she did not hear what 
her husband said. She took her child into her arms when they were 
safe in the carriage, rolling along the darks roads in the dimness of 
the summer night, and Carry cried and sobbed on her mother’s 
breast. 

“ I understand that you have refused him,” Lady Lindores said. 
“ But what then ? Why should you be so wretched about it, Carry ? 
It is a kind of vanity to be so sorry for the man. You may be sure 
Mr. Torrance will get over it, my love.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


49 


Then Carry managed to stammer forth the real source of her ter- 
ror. She was not thinking of Mr. Torrance, but of papa. What 
would he say to her ? would he ever forgive her ? And then it was 
Lady Lindores’s turn to be amazed. 

My darling, you must compose yourself,” she said; this is 
greater nonsense than the other. Papa ! What can it matter to 
your father ? He will never force your inclinations ; and how can 
this coarse bumpkin interest such a man as he is ? ” She became 
almost angry at the sight of Carry’s tears. ‘‘Allow me to know your 
father a little better than you do,” she cried. “ Mr. Torrance ! who 
is Mr. Torrance ? I can’t believe that he would favor such a suitor 
for a moment. But supposing that he did so — supposing he thought, 
as people are apt to do, that money covers a multitude of sins — your 
father is not a worldly-minded man. Carry ; he is ambitious, but 
not for money — supposing, just for the sake of argument — Anyhow, 
my dear, that could only be if the man happened to please you in 
his own person. We might like the match better because the pre- 
tender was rich, nothing more. Can you really think that papa 
would be a tyrant to you — that he would compel you to marry any 
one ? Carry, my love, you have got an attack of the nerves ; it is 
your good-sense that has given way.” 

Carry wept abundantly while her mother thus talked to her, and 
the agitation which she had so long shut up in her heart calmed 
down. Every word Lady Lindores said was perfectly reasonable, 
and to have represented her kind father to herself as a domestic ty- 
rant was monstrous, she felt; but yet — she could not tell her mother 
all the trifling circumstances, the tones, the looks which had forced 
that conviction upon her. But she was willing, very willing, to allow 
herself to be persuaded that it was all a mistake, and to accept the 
gentle reproof and banter with which Lady Lindores soothed her ex- 
citement. “To refuse a man is always disagreeable,” she said, 
philosophically, “ especially as one must always feel one is to blame 
in letting him come the length of a proposal, and self-esteem whis- 
pers that he will find it hard to console himself. No, my CariT-, no ; 
don’t distress yourself too much. I don’t want to be cynical ; but 
men of Mr. Torrance’s type soon console themselves. Men have 
died and worms have eaten them, but not for love.” 

“ It is not that — it is not that,” Carry protested, among her tears. 

But her mother would hear of nothing more alarming. “ It is a 
wrong to your father to think he would take up the cause of such a 
man,” she said, indignantly; “ and I should have been horribly dis- 
appointed in you, Carry, if you had thought of him for a moment.” 
Carry was so soothed, so comforted, so almost happy in her trouble, 
that the inmost doors of her heart opened to her mother. “ What- 
ever he had been, oh, mother, do you think I could forget Edward?” 
she said. His name had not been mentioned between them for 
months before. 

“ Edw^ard I ” said Lady Lindores, shaking her head ; and then 
she kissed the pleading, expectant face, which she could only feel, 
not see. “ He should have showed more energy, Carry. Had he 

3 


50 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


been worthy of you, he would not have left this question unsettled 
till now.” 

What could he do ? ” cried Carry, roused out of her prostration. 

He could not invent business for himself.” Again Lady Lindores 
shook her head ; but by this time they had reached their own door, 
and, in the fervor of her defence and championship of her lover. 
Carry got out of the carriage a very different creature from the pros- 
trate and fainting girl who had been put into it at Tinto. She went 
with her mother to her room, feverish and anxious to plead the cause 
of Edward. Lady Lindores was a romantic woman, who believed in 
love, and had taught her children to do the same. But she was dis- 
appointed that her daughter’s lover had not been inspired by his 
love ; that he had not found success, and secured his own cause be- 
yond the power of evil fortune. Arguing against this adverse opin- 
ion, and defending Edward on every question, Carry recovered her 
courage and her composure. She felt able to fight for him to her 
last gasp when she left her mother, shaking her head still, but always 
well disposed to every generous plea ; for the moment she had for- 
gotten all the nearer dangers which had seemed so terrible to her an 
hour before. 

Lady Lindores sat up in her dressing-gown till her husband and 
Edith came back. He was very gloomy, she excited and breathless, 
with a feverish sparkle in her eyes, which her mother noticed for the 
first time. She wondered if little Edith was in the secret too — that 
secret which she had herself scarcely thought of till to-night ; and 
her husband’s aspect filled her with strange anxieties. Was it pos- 
sible that she, who had known them so long, her husband for all the 
most important time of his life, her child since her first breath, 
should have discoveries to make in them now ? The thought was 
painful to her, and she tried to dismiss it from her mind. Carry 
is better,” she said, with an attempt to treat the subject lightly. 

It was the glare of those rooms, I suppose. They are very hand- 
some, but there was too much heat and too much light.” 

“ I hope it is the last time we shall have any such scenes from 
Carry,” said the earl. ‘‘ You ought to speak to her very seriously. 
She has been behaving like a fool.” 

‘‘Dear Robert,” said Lady Lindores, “it is trying to a girl of 
any feeling to have a proposal made to her in a ball-room, and I 
dare say Mr. Torrance was rude and pressing. It is exactly what I 
should have expected of him.” 

“Since when,” said the earl, sternly, “have you studied Mr. 
Torrance so closely as to divine what may be expected of him ? ” 

“ Robert! I have not studied him at all, nor do I attempt to 
divine. Carry’s agitation, her fright, her panic, if I may call it 
so ” 

“ Were simply ridiculous — ridiculous ! ” cried Lord Lindores. 
“ I always thought her sentimental, but I never suspected her to be 
a fool.” 

“ Carry is no fool,” cried her mother, indignantly; “ you know 
very well she has both spirit and sense, and more than sense. She 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


51 


is not a common girl. She ought not to be treated as one. And 
this man, this fox-hunter, this vulgar laird ” 

As he will probably be your son-in-law, you will do well to 
avoid epithets,” Lord Lindores said. 

My son-in-law ! ” said his wife, in a suppressed shriek. But 
Carry has refused him,” she added, with relief. 

“ To night — being flurried, and not knowing her own mind ; but 
she will know better to-morrow.” 

Robert ! for Heaven’s sake, when she has been so distressed 
by this most hateful proposal, you surely will not suffer it to be re- 
peated ! ” 

Why should it be a hateful proposal ? ” he said. 

Why ? ” Lady Lindores did not know bow to answer ; if he did 
not see it, if it did not jump at his eyes, as she said to herself, what 
explanation would make it clearer ? She tried to smile and ap- 
proach him on another side. ‘‘ Dear Robert,” she said, tremulously 
— ‘‘ to think of you taking the part of such a man ! He must have 
some fine qualities, I am sure, or you never could have endured the 
outside of him, or his manners, or his talk. He is so unlike you, so 
unlike anything the girls have ever been taught to care for.” If this 
v^as flattery, surely it may be forgiven to the anxious mother. She 
was anxious too, as a wife, that her husband should not come down 
from the pedestal on which it had been her pride to keep him for so 
many years. 

That is all very well,” he said, impatiently ; but I never set 
myself up as a model of what my children were to like. Yes ; he 
has fine qualities, golden qualities. Do you know that he is the 
richest commoner in Scotland, Lady Lindores ? ” 

I know,” she said, with quick offence, the tears starting sud- 
denly to her eyes, that my name is Mary, and that I hate this 
wretched title, which I shall never get used to, and never tolerate if 
my husband calls me by it. We are all, all put asunder, all changed, 
and finding each other out since we came here.” 

This little outburst was partly real and partly a half-conscious art 
to find an outlet for her excitement. Her husband was more touched 
by it than if it had been more serious. The complaint was fantastic, 
yet it was one which love might be excused for making. My love,” 
he said, of course I meant nothing unkind. There have been times 
when I called you Mrs. Lindores in jest, as I did just now. But, 
seriously, you must see what I am thinking of — you must give me 
your support. We are poor. If Rintoul is to take the position to 
which he is entitled after me ” 

‘‘You mean Robin? I tell you I hate those new names!” 
she cried. 

“ This is foolish, Mary. If he is to enter upon life when his 
time comes weighted with a heavy provision for his sisters — consider ; 
there is poor Jane. She is quite young ; she may outlive us all; and 
if I were to die, there would be two jointures besides Car and Edith.” 

“ Let me be struck off the list,” cried Lady Lindores. “ I will 
never be a burden on my son. Robert, God forgive you ; for a dis- 


52 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


tant evil like this, would you bring that man into our family, and 
force an unwilling marriage on your child ? But no, no ; I am doing 
you wrong ; your thoughts have never gone so far.’^ 

The earl made no reply. His face was like a thunder-cloud, 
lowering and heavy — a darkness from which, at any moment, fire 
and flame might burst forth. 

“No, no,” said the mother. understand what you have 

thought. I did so once myself when — you remember — young Ash- 
estiel came in our way. I thought if they would but take to each 
other ; if they would only see what a natural harmony they would 
make ! Yes, yes, I remember, I was provoked beyond measure 
that they would not see it ; and when he went away I did not know 
how to contain myself. I was angry with my innocent Carry for not 
caring. I understand you, Robert. If by any chance her fancy had 
b^en taken by this young millionnaire — but, dear, how could it ? — 
you would yourself have thought less of Carry had she liked such a 
man. Acknowledge : he is not much better than a boor — with, per- 
haps, a boor’s virtues.” 

She looked up when she had got so far, and stopped in sheer 
amazement at the sight of her husband’s face. She had never seen 
any indication before of what she now found in it : rage with diffi- 
culty smothered ; a determined intention to follow his own way ; an 
uneasy shame turning to bitterness and passion. His voice was 
quite hoarse with the effort to contain himself. “ I thought,” he 
said, that at least you were not one of the silly women who speak 
of things they don’t understand. But I was mistaken. You will 
rather encourage a foolish girl in a piece of unworthy romance than 

show her her duty— her duty! But neither you nor she, by , 

shall hold me up to ridicule I She shall take this husband I choose 
for her, or by — ” Here he became aware how much he was com- 
mitting himself. He stopped, gazed at her definntly for a moment, 
then began to pace up and down the room in great confusion. ‘‘ The 
short and the long of it is,” he said, “ that I can’t suffer Carry, for a 
girlish prejudice, to throw away such a position. He might be the 
first man in the county,” Lord Lindores said. “ He has twice as 
much as we have, and no title to keep up ; no encumbrance of any 
kind. She might be a sort of princess. I cannot allow all this to be 
thrown away for a mere fancy. If she does not like him, she must 
learn to like him. What would she have ? He is not ^ petit maUre, 
certainly ; but he is a man, every inch of him — his family good, his 
health good, a magnificent house. What could any woman want 
more ? She will have everything that heart can desire.” 

Lady Lindores made no immediate reply. All this was so new 
to her — a revelation of things unthought of. It took away her breath ; 
it took away her courage. Is there any shock, any pang that life can 
give, equal to that of suddenly perceiving a touch of baseness, a fail- 
ure of honor, a lower level of moral feeling, in those who are most 
dear to us ? This is what shatters heaven and earth, and shakes the 
pillars of existence to the beholder. It filled this woman with a sud- 
den despair impossible to describe. She tried to speak, and her very 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


53 


voice failed her. What was the use of saying anything? If he 
thought thus, could anything that was said affect him ? Despair 
made her incapable of effort. She was like Hamlet, paralyzed. At 
the end she managed to falter forth a word of protestation. “ There 
are some,” she said, faintly, “ who are content with so much less, 
Robert — and yet how much more ! — you and I among the rest.” 

A woman always answers with a personal example,” he said. 

And Lady Lindores was dumb. She did not know what to say 
to the new man who stood beside her, in the familiar aspect of her hus- 
band, expressing sentiments which never before had come from the 
lips of Robert Lindores. He had been self-indulgent in the old days 
— perhaps a little selfish — accepting sacrifices which it was not right 
for him to accept. But there had been a hundred excuses for him ; 
and she and the girls had always been so ready, so eager, to make 
those sacrifices. It had been the pleasure of their lives to make his 
as smooth, as graceful, as pleasant as possible. There was no ques- 
tion of anything of this kind now. He who had been dependent on 
their ministrations for half the comfort of his life was now quite in- 
dependent of them, the master of everybody’s fate — judging for them, 
deciding for them, crushing their private wishes. Lady Lindores 
was confused beyond measure by this discovery. She put her hand 
to her head unconsciously, as if it must be that which was wrong. 
A vague hope that things might not look so terrible in the morning 
came into her mind. It was very late, and they were all tired and 
worn with the agitation of the evening. I think I am not in a con- 
dition to understand to-night,” she said, drearily. ‘‘ It will be better, 
perhaps, to put off till to-morrow.” 

It is a pity you sat up,” he said, coldly ; and thus the strange 
conference ended. It was already morning, the blue light stealing 
in through the closed shutters. Things, as well as faces, look ghast- 
ly in this unaccustomed light. Lady Lindores drew the curtains 
closer to shut it out, and lay down with her head aching, turning her 
face to the wall. 

There are circumstances in which the light of heaven is terrible, 
and darkness, darkness, oblivion of itself, the only things the soul 
cares for. But though you can shut out the light, you cannot shut 
out thought. There was not much rest that night in Lindores. The 
earl himself had a consciousness of the strange discovery of him 
which his wife had made ; and though he was defiant and determined 
to subdue all opposition, yet he was hurt and angry all the same that 
his Mary should think less well of him. He seemed to himself of 
late to have done a great deal for her and her children. No idea of 
the elevation she had now reached had been in her mind when they 
married. There were three brothers then between him and the title, 
besides the children of the elder. And now that things had so come 
about as that Mary was actually Countess of Lindores, he could not 
but feel that he had done a great deal for her. Yet she was not 
grateful. She looked at him with those scrutinizing, alarmed eyes. 
She turned away from Jiim with painful wonder ; with — there was no 
doubt of it — disapproval. And yet all he wanted was the advance- 


54 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


ment of the family — the real good of his daughter. Who could 
doubt what his motive was ? or that it was for Carry’s good to have 
a noble establishment, a fortune that a princess might envy ? Could 
there be any comparison between that and the marriage with a poor 
barrister, upon which, in her first folly, she had set her heart ? It 
was unreasonable beyond measure, ungrateful, that his quite legiti- 
mate determination, judging for the real advantage of his daughter, 
should be thus looked upon by Lady Lindores. 

But it would be vain to attempt to describe the struggle that fol- 
lowed : that domestic tragedy would have to be told at length if told 
at all, and it included various tragedies ; not only the subjugation 
of poor Carry, the profanation of her life, and cruel rending of her 
heart, but such a gradual enlightening and clearing away of all the 
lovely prejudices and prepossessions of affection from the eyes of 
Lady Lindores as was almost as cruel. The end of it was, that one of 
these poor women, broken in heart and spirit, forced into a marriage 
she hated, and feeling herself outraged and degraded, began her 
life in bitterness and misery, with a pretence of splendor and success 
and good-fortune which made the real state of affairs still more de- 
plorable ; and the other, feeling all the beauty of her life gone from 
her, her eyes disenchanted, a pitiless, cold daylight revealing every 
angle once hid by the glamour of love and tender fancy, began a 
sort of second existence alone. 

If Torrance had been determined before to have Lady Caroline 
for his Vv^ife, he was far more determined after she had put his pride 
to the humiliation of a refusal, and roused all the savage in him. 
From the night of the ball until the moment of the wedding, he 
never slackened in his pursuit of the shrinking, unhappy girl, who, 
on her side, had betrayed her weakness to her sister on the first 
mention of the hateful suitor. Edith was disenchanted, too, as well 
as her mother. She comprehended none of them. I would not 
do it,” she said, simply, when the struggle was at its bitterest ; 
why do you do it ? ” 

Rintoul, for his part, when he appeared upon the scene, repeated 
Edith’s positivism in a different way. I think my father is quite 
right,” he said. What could Carry look for ? She is not pretty ; 
she is twenty-four. You ought to take these things into considera- 
tion, mother. She has lost her chance of any of the prizes ; and 
when you have here the very thing, a man rolling in money — and 
not a tradesman either, which many girls have to put up with — it is 
such a chance as not one in a thousand ever gets. I think Car 
ought to be very grateful to papa.” Lady Lindores listened with a 
gasp — Robin too ! But she did not call him Robin for a long time 
after that day. He was Rintoul to her, as to the rest of the w^orld, 
his father’s heir, very clearly alive to the advantage of having, when 
his time came, no provision for his sister hanging like a millstone 
round his neck. His sympathy and approval were delightful to his 
father. Women are such queer cattle, you never know how to 
take them,” the experienced young man said. A man is not in a 
crack regiment for nothing. He had more knowledge of the world 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 55 

than his father had. “ I should have thought my mother would have 
been delighted to settle Carry so near home.” 

Thus it was a very strange, divided house upon the eve of this 
marriage. To add to the confusion, there was great squabbling over 
the settlements, which Pat Torrance, eager though he was to secure 
the bride, whom his pride and self-will, as well as what he believed 
to be his love, had determined to have at all costs, was by no means 
so liberal about as the earl thought necessary. He fought this out 
step by step, even venturing to hint, like the brute he was, that it 
was no beauty or belle whom he was marrying, and cutting down the 
requirements of her side in the most business-like way. Lady Lin- 
dores had been entirely silenced, and looked after the indispensable 
matters of her daughter’s trousseau without a trace of the usual 
cheerful bustle attending wedding preparations ; while Carry seemed 
to live in a dream, sometimes rousing up to make an appeal to her 
father’s pity, but mostly in a sort of passive state, too heart-broken 
to be excited about anything. Edith, young and curious, moved 
about in the midst of it all in the activity of her independence, as 
yet touched by none of these things. She was a sort of rebellion 
impersonated, scarcely comprehending the submission of the others. 
While Carry wept she stood looking on, her face flushed, her eyes 
brilliant. ‘‘ I would not do it,” she said. These words were con- 
stantly on her lips. 

How could you help doing it ? ” poor Carry cried, turning upon 
her in the extremity of her despair. Oh, have a little pity upon 
me, Edie 1 What can I do ? I would sooner die. If there is any- 
thing you can think of — anything ! But it is all past hope now. Papa 

will not even listen to me. Rintoul tells me I am a fool. He ” 

But here Carry’s voice was broken with a shudder. She could not 
speak of her bridegroom without a contraction of her heart. 

I don’t know what I should do, but I should not do this,” said 
Edith, surveying her sister from the height of untried resolution. 
‘‘ Nobody can force you to say Yes instead of No ; nobody can make 
you do a thing you are determined not to do. Why do you do it ? 
You can’t want not to do it at the very bottom of your heart.” 

Carry gave her a look of anguish which brought the girl to her 
knees in compunction and remorse. ‘‘Oh, forgive me. Car! but 
why, why do you do it ? ” she cried. Lady Lindores had come 
softly in to give her child her good-night kiss. It was within a few 
days of the wedding. She stood and looked at the group with tears 
in her eyes — one girl lying back, white, worn, and helpless, in her 
chair ; the other, at her feet, glowing with courage and life. 

“ Speak to her, mamma,” cried Edith, “ as long as there is any 
hope.” 

“ What can I say ? ” said the mother. “ Everything has gone too 
far now. It would be a public scandal. I have said all that I could. 
Do not make my poor child more unhappy. Carry, my darling, you 
will do your duty whatever happens \ and everything becomes 
easier when it is duty ” 


56 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


‘‘ But how is it duty ? ” said rebellious Edith. would not do 
it! ” she cried, stamping her foot on the floor. 

Edith, Edith! do not torture your sister. It is easy to say 
such things, but how are you to do them ? God knows, I would not 
mind what I did if it was only me. I would fly away with her some- 
where — escape from them all. But what would happen ? Our fam- 
ily would be rent asunder. Your father and I ’’ — Lady Lindores’s 
voice quivered a little — who have been always so united, would part 
forever. Our family quarrels would be discussed in public. You, 
Edith — what would become of you? Your prospects would all be 
ruined. Carry herself would be torn to pieces by the gossips. They 
would say there must be some reason. God knows, I would not 
hesitate at any sacrifice.’^ 

Mamma, do not say anything more ; it is all over. I know 
there is nothing to be done,” said Carry, faintly. As for Edith, she 
could not keep still ; her whole frame was tingling. She clinched 
her. small fists and dashed them into the air. 

‘‘ I would not do it ! I would just refuse — refuse ! I would not 
do it ! Why should you do it ? ” she cried. 

But between these two there was no talking. The younger sister 
flew to her own room, impelled by her sense of the intolerable, un- 
able to keep still. She met her brother by the way, and clutched 
him by the arm, and drew him with her within her own door. I 
would not do it, if I were Carry,” she said, breathless. You might 
drag me to church, if you liked, but even there I would not consent. 
Why, why does she do it ? ” Edith cried. 

Because,” said Rintoul the experienced, she is not such a 
fool as she looks. She knows that after the first is over, with plenty 
of money and all that, she will get on first-rate, you little goose. 
Girls like something to make a fuss about.” 

Oh, it is a great deal you know about girls ! ” cried Edith, giv- 
ing him a shake in the violence of her emotion. But he only laugh- 
ed, disengaging himself. 

We’ll see what you’ll do when it comes to your turn,” he said, 
and he went off along the passage whistling. It did not matter to 
him that his sister was breaking her heart. But why, why, oh why 
does she do it ? ” Edith dozed and woke again half a dozen times in 
the night, crying this out into the silence. To refuse, surely one 
could do that. Papa might scold, there might be scenes and unhap- 
piness, but nothing could be so unhappy as this. She was incap- 
able of understanding how there could be any difficulty in the case. 

The marriage took place, however, in spite of these convulsions, 
and several years had elapsed since that event. It was an old affair 
when John Erskine, newly arrived, and full of curiosity and interest, 
had that encounter with Lady Lindores and her daughter at his own 
gate, where something of the outline of this story was communicated 
to him — the facts of it at least. The ladies did not linger upon 
Carry’s marriage in their narrative. He was told of it briefly as an 
event long over, and to which everybody had got accustomed. And 
so it was. The most miserable of events settle down into the routine 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


57 


of life when a few years have elapsed. Carry herself long ago had 
accepted her fate, trying to persuade herself that an unhappy mar- 
riage was nothing out of the common, and taking such comfort as 
was possible in poetry and intellectual musings. Her husband, who 
neither knew nor cared for anything above his own rude external 
world, yet felt her poetry to enhance the delicacy of her being, and 
to raise Lady Car more and more to that height of superiority which 
was what he had sought in her — was all the better satisfied with his 
’ bargain, though all the more separated from any possible point of 
junction with her. The neighborhood was very well aware of all the 
1 circumstances ; and though Lady Lindores entered into no expla- 
nations, yet there was a sigh, and a tone in her voice, as she spoke 
of her daughter, which suggested sorrow. 

But, to tell the truth, young John Erskine, suddenly finding such 
friends at his very door, suddenly re-admitted into the old intimacy, 
and finding the dull country life to which he had been looking for- 
ward flash into sunshine and pleasure, made few inquiries into this 
darker chapter of the family history ; and in reality cared for noth- 
ing much but to convince himself that the Lindores family were 
really his next neighbors ; that they were quite willing to receive 
him on the old footing ; and that, demurely walking along the same 
road on the other side of her mother, saying little, but touching the 
entire atmosphere with a sense of her presence, was Edith Lindores. 
Perhaps, had he actually been by her side, the sensation being more 
definite would have been less entrancing. But her mother was be- 
tween them, animated and pleased by the meeting, ready to tell him 
all that had happened, and to hear his account of himself, with 
friendly interest ; while beyond her ample figure and draperies, the 
line of a gray dress, the occasional flutter of a ribbon, the putting 
forth of a small foot, made the young man aware of the other crea- 
ture wrapped in soft silence and maidenly reserve, whom he could 
image to himself all the more completely that he saw no more of 
her. He scarcely heard her voice as they walked along thus near 
yet separated ; but a great many things that Lady Lindores said 
were confused by the sound upon the road of her daughter’s step — 
by the appearance of that bit of ribbon, with which the sunny wind 
did not hesitate to play, floating out in advance of her, catching the 
young man’s eye. Thus all at once, on the very first day after his 
return, another new existence began for John Erskine on the road 
between Dalrulzian and Lindores. 


CHAPTER VII. 

There are few things in human affairs more curious than the 
Urncture of what is called society, wherever it is met with, whether 
ip most primitive of its developments or on the higher levels. 

3 ^ 


58 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


The perpetual recurrence of a circle within which the sayings and 
doings of certain individuals are more important than anything else 
in earth or heaven, and where the conversation persistently rolls 
back, whatever may be its starting-point, to what this or that little 
knot of people are doing, to the eccentricities of one and the banali- 
ties of another, to some favorite individual scene of tragedy or 
comedy which forms the centre of the moral landscape, is always 
apparent to the observer, whether his observations are made in 
Kamtchatka or in London, among washerwomen or princesses. 
But under no circumstances is this so evident as to a new-comer in 
a region where all the people know each other. The novelty and 
freshness of his impressions perhaps make him congratulate him- 
self for a moment that now at last he has got into a society fresh and 
original, with features of its own ; but half a dozen meetings are 
enough to prove to him that he has only got into another round, a 
circle as little extended, as much shut up in its own ring, as all the 
rest. This was what John Erskine found, with a little amusement 
and a little disgust, almost as soon as he got settled in his unknown 
home. 

Any addition to their society was interesting to the country folks, 
especially in May, when there is not much doing — when those who 
can indulge themselves in the pleasures of the season have gone to 
London, and those who cannot are bound to bring forth their phi- 
losophy and prove that they enjoy the country in the early summer, 
even though there is nothing to do. But a young man unencumbered 
and alone, with all his life before him, and all his connections to 
form, is perhaps of all others the most interesting human creature 
who can come into a new sphere. All the world is curious about 
him, both those whose lives he may influence, and those to whom he 
can contribute nothing but the interest, perhaps of a new drama, 
perhaps only of a new face. He who will enact his own story pub- 
licly before the eyes of his neighbors, falling in love, wooing, marry- 
ing, or still better, carrying on these processes with interruptions of 
non-success and threatenings of postponement, what a godsend he 
is ! And perhaps scarcely less he who brings in darker elements 
into the placid tenor of the general history, and ruins himself for 
our instruction, while we all look on with bated breath. 

To the country-side in general John Erskine, while as yet un- 
known, was a new hero. He was the beginning of a romance with 
all the more fascination in it that the most interested spectator for 
a long time could form but little idea how it was to turn. As soon 
as he was known to be at home his neighbors came down upon him 
from all quarters with friendly greetings, invitations, offers of kind- 
ness on all sides. The first to appear was Sir James Montgomery, 
a sunburnt and cheerful old soldier, whose small estate of Chiefs- 
wood ‘^marched’’ on one side with Dalrulzian, and who was dis- 
posed to be very friendly. He came in beaming with smiles over 
all his brown, jovial countenance, and holding out a large, cordial 
hand. 

Well, young man, so this is you at last. YouTe heartily wel- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


59 


come home. I’ve been long away myself, and you’ve never been 
here, but we’re old neighbors for all that, and I take it upon me to 
call myself an old friend.” 

You are very kind,” John said, suffering his hand to be en- 
gulfed in that kind, warm, capacious grasp. The old soldier held 
him at arm’s length for a moment, looking at him with friendly 
eyes. 

“ I remember your grandfather well,” he said ; not so much 
of your father, for he came to man’s estate, and died, poor lad, when 
I was away ; but I see some features of the old man in you, my 
young friend, and I’m glad to see them. You’ll seldom meet with a 
better man than your grandfather. He was very kind to me as a 
young lad at the time I got my commission. They were ill able to 
afford my outfit at home, and I’m much mistaken if old Dalrulzian 
did not lend a helping hand ; so mind you, my lad, if young Dal- 
rulzian should ever want one — a day in harvest, as the proverb 
goes ” 

‘‘You are very kind, sir,” said John Erskine, again ; he was 
touched, but half amused as well. It seemed so unlikely that he 
should require the old general’s helping hand. And then they 
talked of the country, and of their previous lives and diverse exper- 
iences. Sir James was one of those primitive men, much more 
usual a generation ago than now, whose knowledge of life, which to 
his own thinking was profound and extensive, left out the greater 
part of what in our days is known as life at all. He knew Scotland 
and India, and nothing more. He was great in expedients for deal- 
ing with the natives on one hand, and full of a hundred stories of 
village humor, fun, and pawkiness on the other. To hear him laugh 
over one of these anecdotes till the tears stood in his clear, warm, 
blue eyes, which were untouched by any dimness of time, was worth 
all the witticisms ever printed ; and to see him bend his fine old 
brows over the characteristics of his old subjects in India, and the 
ameliorations of character produced by British rule, firmness, and 
justice, was better than philosophy. But with that which young 
John Erskine knew as life he had no acquaintance. Save his own 
country and the distant East, the globe was wrapped in dimness to 
him. He had passed through London often, and had even trans- 
acted business at the Horse Guards, though an Indian officer in those 
days had little to do with that centre of military authority ; but he 
had a mingled awe and horror of “ town,” and thought of the Con- 
tinent as of a region of temptation where the devil was far more ap- 
parent than in other places, and sought whom he might devour with 
much more openness and less hinderance than at home. And when 
our young man, who flattered himself a little on his knowledge of 
society and the world, as he understood the phrase, unfolded him- 
self before the innocent patriarch, their amazement at each other 
was mutual. 

Old Sir James contemplated John in his knowledge with some- 
thing of the same amused respect which John on his side felt for him 
in his ignorance. To each there was in the other a mixture of a boy 


6o 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


and a sage, which made them each to each half absurd and half won- 
derful. An old fellow, who must have seen so much, to have seen so 
little ! and a mere bit of a lad, Sir James said to himself, who knew 
nothing about India or anything serious, yet had seen a vast deal, 
and had very just notions, and spoke like a man of the world when 
you came to talk to him ! It was thus the senior who did most jus- 
tice to the junior, as is usually the case. 

I am afraid,’’ Sir James said, that you’ll find our country-side 
but dull after all you’ve seen. We’re pleased with ourselves, as 
most ignorant people are ; we think we’re good enough company on 
the whole, but music, or the play, or art, or that kind of thing, you’ll 
find us wanting in. I’m afraid they find us very wanting at Lindores ; 
but as for a kind welcome, whenever you like and however you like, 
and a good Scots dinner, and sometimes a dance, if that will content 
you in the way of company ” 

‘‘ I should be hard to please if that would not content me,” said 
John. ‘‘ I hope you will give me the chance.” 

That we will — that we will,” said Sir James, heartily ; and then 
he added, We have no young people about us — Lady Montgomery 
and me. Our two children are as far from children now as their 
father and mother. They are both in India, and their families grown 
up and gone out to them. So we have nothing young of our own 
about the house ; but don’t go too fast — we’re not without attraction. 
In a week, I think, we’re expecting a visitor that will make the place 
bright — Miss Barrington — Nora Barrington ; you’ll have heard of her 
by this time. She’s a great favorite in the country. We are all 
keen to have her and keep her. I’m not afraid that a young man 
will find us dull when we’ve Nora in the house.” 

Here John, who had become suspicious of the name of this girl, 
whom everybody insisted on recommending to him, eagerly protested 
that he should want no foreign attraction to the house in which the 
kind old general was. 

Foreign ! No, she’s not foreign,” said Sir James ; far from 
that. A bonny English girl, which, after a bonny Scotch lassie, is by 
far the best thing going. We must stand up for our own first,” said 
the old soldier, laughing; but nothing foreign — nothing foreign ; 
if you want that, you’ll have to go to Lindores.” 

John felt, he could scarcely tell why, slightly irritated by these re- 
ferences to Lindores. He said, somewhat elaborately, They are 
the only people I really know in the county. I met them long ago 
— on the Continent.” 

‘‘ Ah ! Ay ; that’s just what I say — for anything foreign you’ll 
have to go to the castle,” said Sir James, a little doubtfully. But,” 
he added, after a moment’s pause, 1 hope you’ll take to us and your 
own country, and need no ‘ foreign aid of ornament,’ eh ? You must 
forgive me. I am an old fellow, and old-fashioned. In my time it 
used to be thought that your French and Italians were — well, no bet- 
ter than they should be. Germans, they tell me, are a more solid 
race; but I know little difference — I know little difference. You’ll 
say that’s my' ignorance,” said this man of prejudice, beaming upon 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


6i 


his companion with a smile in which there was a little deprecation, 
but a great deal of simple confidence. It was impossible not to con- 
done the errors of a censor so innocent. 

If you knew them, you would not only see a great deal of dif- 
ference, but I think you would like them a great deal better than 
you suppose,” John said. 

Very likely — very likely,” cried Sir James. It occurred to him 
suddenly that if his young friend had indeed, poor lad, been brought 
up among those ‘‘foreign cattle,” an unfavorable opinion of them 
might hurt his feelings ; and this was the last thing the old man 
would have done — even to a foreigner in person, much less to a son 
of the soil temporarily seduced by the wiles of strangers. And then 
he repeated his formula about being an old fellow and old-fashioned. 
“And you’ll mind to expect nothing but broad Scotch at Chiefs- 
wood,” he cried, laughing and waving his hand as he rode away, after 
the hearty invitation with which every visitor ended. “ You’ll get 
the other at Lindores.” 

And the door had scarcely closed upon this new acquaintance 
when the earl made his appearance, with the smile of an old friend, 
quite willing to acknowledge old relationships, but not too familiar 
or enthusiastic in his claim. He was no longer the languid gentle- 
man he had been in the old wandering days, but had the fresh color 
and active step of a man who lived much out-of-doors. “ The scene 
is very different,” he said, with kindness but dignity. “We are all 
changed more or less ; but the sentiments are the same.” He said 
this with something of the air of a prince graciously renewing acquain- 
tance with a friend of his exile. “ I hope we shall see you often at the 
castle. Vve are your nearest neighbors ; and when you have been 
as long here as we have, you will have learned to shudder at the 
words. But it is a relief to think it is you who will now fill that roleR 
Could a benevolent nobleman say more ? And it was only after a 
good deal of friendly talk that Lord Lindores began to speak of the 
county business, and the advantage it would be to him to have sup- 
port in his attempts to put things on a better footing. 

“Nothing can be more arridre^ he said. “ We are behind in 
everything ; and the prejudices I have to struggle with aie incon- 
ceivable. I shall have you now, I hope, on my side ; we are, 1 be- 
lieve, of the same politics.” 

“ I scarcely know what my politics are,” said John. “ Some one 
told me the other day that the Erskines are always on the right side ; 
and, if you will not be disgusted, I am obliged to confess that I don’t 
know what was meant. I know what it would be at Milton Magna. 
I imagine dimly just the opposite here.” 

The earl smiled benignly on the young inquirer. “The Erskines 
have always been Liberal,” he said. “ I know there is no counting 
upon you young men. You generally go too far on one side or the 
other ; if you are not Tories, you are Radicals. My Liberalism, 
bien entendu^ does not go that length — no Radicalism, no revolution- 
ary sentiments. In short, at present my politics mean county hos- 
pitals and drainage more than anything else.” Then he paused, and 


62 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


added, somewhat abruptly, “ I don’t know if you ever thought of 
Parliament — as a career for yourself ? ” 

At this John’s pulses gave a sudden jump, and the blood rushed 
to his cheeks. Had he thought of it ? He could scarcely tell. As 
something he might come to, when he had learned the claims of 
life upon him, and the circumstances of the country, which as yet he 
barely knew — as an object to look forward to, something that might 
ennoble his future and afford him the finest occupation that a man 
can have, a share in the government of his country — yes ; no doubt 
he had thought of it — at a time when he thought more highly of Dal- 
rulzian and of his own pretensions. But the demand was very sud- 
den, and he had all the modesty of youth. ‘‘ Parliament ! ” he fal- 
tered forth. I — don’t know that I have thought of it. I fear I 
know too little of politics — I have too little experience — ” And here 
he paused, expecting nothing less than that he should be kindly urged 
to think better of it, and persuaded that it was his duty to serve 
his generation so. 

“ Ah,” said the earl, you give me just the assurance I wanted. 
I need not hesitate to tell you, in that case, that my great desire is 
to push Rintoul for the county. If you had thought of it yourself, 
it would have been a different matter ; but otherwise everything 
points to him — his position, our circumstances as the natural leaders, 
and the excellent, chance he would have with all parties — better than 
any one else, I believe. You could be of the utmost use to us, Ers- 
kine, if it does not interfere with any plans of your own.” 

Now, John had no plans ; but this sudden check, after the sud- 
den suggestion which roused all his ambition, was too much like a 
dash of cold water in his face to be pleasant to him. But he had 
time to collect himself while Lord Lindores was speaking, and to 
call up a sort of smile of assent, though it gave him a twinge of 
ludicrous pain. It was poetic justice. He had faltered and said No, 
in erd^r to be encouraged and made to say Yes, and his vanity and 
false modesty, he thought, had got their reward. And all this for 
Rintoul ! He remembered Rintoul well enough when he was not 
Rintoul at all, but Robin Lindores — a poor little lieutenant in a 
marching regiment. And now he was in the Guards, and the heir 
of an earldom. The change of position was so great that it took 
away John’s breath. In the days of their former acquaintance there 
could not have been the smallest doubt which was the more impor- 
tant personage — young Lindores, who had nothing at all, or John 
Erskine, with a good estate which everybody accepted as much bet- 
ter than it was. Bnt now he had gone down, and the other up. 
All this went through his mind ruefully, yet not without a sense of 
amusement in his own discomfiture. He had not much confidence 
in his own abilities or enlightenment, but it was not much to brag of 
that he had more of both than young Lindores. However, he had 
nothing to do in this sudden concatenation but to listen respectfully 
yet ruefully as the earl went on, who seemed to have grasped him, 
present and future, in his hands. 

It is a wonderful comfort to be able to calculate upon you,” he 


THE LADIES L/NDORES, 


63 


said. ‘‘ My son-in-law — for, of course, you have heard of Carry’s 
marriage — would have a great deal of influence if he chose to exert 
it ; but he has his own notions — his own notions. You will under- 
stand, when you make his acquaintance, that though a sterling 
character, he has not had all the advantages that might have been 
wished of acquaintance with men and knowledge of the world. But 
you, my dear Erskine, you know something of life. By-the-bye,” 
he said, as he rose to go away, ‘‘ Lady Lindores charged me to en- 
gage you to come to us to-morrow. We are going away to town, 
but not for more than a month. The ladies insist that they must 
see you before they go. We all look forward to seeing a great deal 
of you,” the earl added, with that manner which was always so fasci- 
nating. Between you and me, our dear neighbors are a set of 
prejudiced old rustics,” he said, with a confidential smile, as he went 
out ; ‘‘ but it will be strange if you and I together cannot make 
them hear reason.” Could anything be more flattering to a young 
man ? And it was the father of Edith who grasped his hand thus 
warmly— who associated him with himself in a conjunction so flat- 
tering. John forgot the little wrench of theoretical disappointment — 
the ludicrous ease with which he had been made to give place to 
Rintoul. After all, something must be sacrificed, he allowed, to the 
heir of an important family — and the brother of Edith Lindores ! 

But this was not his last visitor on this eventful afternoon. The 
earl had scarcely disappeared TVhen Rolls once more threw open the 
door of the library, in which John usually sat, and announced with 
much solemnity Mr. Torrance of Tinto. The man whom the earl, 
though vouching for him “ a sterling character,” had allowed to be 
wanting in knowledge of the world, came striding in with that air of 
taking up all the space in the room and finding it too small for him 
which wealth and a vulgar mind are so apt to give. That John should 
dislike him instinctively from the moment he set eyes upon him was 
nothing remarkable ; for was not he the owner of the most obnoxious 
house in the neighborhood — the man to whom Carry Lindores had 
been sacrificed? John Erskine felt, as he rose to meet the new- 
comer, a sense of the shabbiness and smallness of his own house, 
such as, even in the first evening of disenchantment, had scarcely af- 
fected him so strongly before. When his visitor cast round him that 
bold glance of his big, projecting, light-blue eyes, John saw through 
tliem the insignificance of the place altogether, and the humility of his 
own position, with a mortification which he could scarcely subdue. 
Torrance was tall and strongman immense frame of a man, with 
very black hair and dark complexion, and something insufferably in- 
solent, audacious, cynical, in those' large, light eyes, d fletir de tete. 
His insolence of nature was sufficiently evident ; but what John did 
not see was the underlying sense of inferiority wliich his new visitor 
could not shake off, and which made him doubly and angrily arro- 
gant, as it were, in his own defence. It galled him to recognize bet- 
ter manners and breeding than his own — breeding and manners 
which perhaps he had found, as John did the inferiority of his sur- 
roundings, through another’s eyes. But Torrance’s greeting was 


64 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


made with great show of civility. He had heard much of John as a 
friend of the family at Lindores, he said. 

‘‘Not but what I should have called anyhow,” he explained, 
“ though Tinto really belongs to the other side of the county, and 
Dalrulzian is rather out of the way for me ; but still civility is civility, 
and in the country we’re a kind of neighbors. I hope you like it, 
now you are here ? ” 

“ Pretty well,” was all that John said. 

“ It’s a nice little place. Of course you knew what it was — not 
one of the great country places ; but it stands well, and it looks fine 
at a distance. Few places of its size look better when you’re a good 
bit away.” ' 

This tried the young man’s patience, but he did his best to smile. 
“ It is well enough,” he said ; “I expected no better. It is not im- 
posing, like Tinto. Wherever one goes, it seems to me impossible 
to get out of sight of your big house.” 

“ Yes, it’s an eyesore to half the county ; I’m well aware of that,” 
said Torrance, with complacency. “ There’s far more of it than is 
any good to me. Lady Car — I hear you knew Lady Car before we 
were married,” he said, fixing John almost threateningly with those 
light eyes, “ fills it now and then ; and when I was a bachelor I’ve 
seen it pretty full in September ; but in a general way it’s too big, 
and a great trouble to keep up.” 

“ I hope Lady Caroline is quite well?” John said, with formal 
gravity. 

“ She is well enough. She is never what you call quite well. 
Women get into a way of ailing, I think, just as men get into a way 
of drinking. You were surprised to hear she was married, I sup- 
pose ? ” he asked, abruptly, with again the same threatening, offen- 
sive look, which made John’s blood boil. 

“ I was surprised-^as one is surprised by changes that have taken 

E lace years before one hears of them ; otherwise it is no surprise to 
ear that a young lady has married. Of course,” John added, 
with serious malice, “ I had not the advantage of knowing you.” 

Torrance stared at him for a moment, as if doubtful whether to 
take offence or not. Then he uttered, opening capacious jaws, a 
fierce laugh. 

“ I am very easy to get on with, for those that know me,” he 
said, “if that’s what you mean. We’re a model couple. Lady Car 
and I : everybody will tell you that. And I don’t object to old 
friends, as some men do. Let them come, I always say. If the 
difference is not in favor of the present, it’s a pity — that’s all I 
say.” 

To this John, not knowing what answer to make, replied only 
with a little bow of forced politeness, and nothing more. 

“ I suppose they were in a very different position when you used 
to know them ? ” said Torrance ; “ in a poor way enough — ready to 
make friends with whoever turned up ? ” 

“ It would be very bad policy on my part to say so,” said John, 
“ seeing that I was one of the nobodies to whom Lady Lindores, 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 65 

when she was Mrs. Lindores, was extremely kind — as it seems to me 
she always is.” 

Ah, kind ! that’s all very well : you weren’t nobody — you were 
very eligible — in those days,” said Torrance, with a laugh, for 
which John would have liked to knock him down ; but there were 
various hinderances to this laudable wish. First, that it was John’s 
own house, and civility forbade any aggression ; and second, that 
Tinto was much bigger and stronger than the person whom, per- 
haps, he did not intend to insult — indeed, there was no appearanee 
that he meant to insult him at all. He was only a coarse and vulgar- 
minded man, speaking after his kind. 

The fact is, if you don’t mind my saying so, I’m not very fond 
of my mamma-in- law,” said Torrance. “ Few men are, so far as I 
know ; they put your wife up to all sorts of things. For my part, I 
think there’s a sort of conspiracy among women, and mothers hand 
it down to their daughters. A man should always part his wife from 
her belongings when he can. She’s a great deal better when she 
has nothing but him to look to. She sees then what’s her interest- — 
to please him and never mind the rest. Don’t you think I’m com- 
plaining — Lady Car’s an exception. You never catch her forgetting 
that she’s Lady Caroline Torrance and has her place to fill. Doesn’t 
she do it, too ! She’s the sort of a woman, in one way, that’s fright- 
ened at a fly — and, on the other, the Queen wouldn’t daunt her ; 
that’s the sort of woman I like. She’s what you call a grand 
damm — and no mistake. Perhaps she was too young for that when 
you knew her, and had nothing then to stand on her dignity about.” 

Here John, able to endure no longer, rose hastily and threw open 
a window. The weather gets warm,” he said, “though it is so 
early, and vegetation is not so far behind in Scotland as we suppose.” 

“ Behind ! I should like to know in what we’re behind ! ” cried 
his guest ; and then his dark countenance reddened, and he burst 
into another laugh. “ Perhaps you think I’m desperately Scotch,” 
he said ; “ but that’s a mistake. I’m as little prejudiced as anybody 
can be. I was an Oxford myself. I’m not one of your local men. 
The earl would like me to take his way and follow his lead, as if I 
were a country bumpkin, you know. That’s his opinion of every 
man that has stuck to his own country and not wandered abroad ; 
and now he finds I have my own way of thinking, he doesn’t half 
like it. We can think for ourselves down in the country just as well 
as the-rest of you.” After he had given vent to these sentiments, 
however, Torrance got up, with a half-abashed laugh. “If you 
come over to Tinto, Lady Car and I will be glad to see you. We’ll 
show you some things you can’t see every day — though we are in an 
out-of-the-way corner, you’re thinking,” he said. 

“ I have already heard of the treasures of Tinto,” said John, 
glad that there was something civil to say. 

Pat Torrance nodded his head with much self-satisfaction. 
“ Yes, we’ve got a thing or two,” he said. “ I’m not a connoisseur 
myself. I know they’ve cost a fortune — that’s about all I’m qualified 
to judge of. But Lady Car knows all about them. You would think 


66 


THE LADIES LIN DO RES. 


it was she and not I they belonged to by nature But come and 
judge for yourself. Pm not a man to be suspicious of old friends.’^ 

And here he laughed once more, with obvious offensive meaning; 
but it took John some time to make out what that meaning could be. 
His visitor had been for some time gone, fortunately for all parties, 
before it burst upon him. He divined then that it was he who was 
supposed to have been poor Carry’s lover, and that her husband’s 
object was the diabolical one of increasing her misery by the sight 
of the man whom she had loved and forsaken. Why had she for- 
saken Beaufort for this rude barn-yard hero ? Was it for the sake 
of his great house, which happily was not visible from Dalrulzian, 
but which dominated half the county with gingerbread battlements, 
and the flag that floated presumptuous as if the house were a prince's ? 
Had Carry preferred mere wealth, weighed by such a master, to the 
congenial spirit of her former lover ? It fretted the young man even 
to think of such a possibility. And the visitors had fretted him each 
in some special point. They neutralized the breadth of the external 
landscape with their narrow individuality and busy, bustling little 
schemes. He went out to breathe an air more wholesome, to find 
refuge from that close pressure of things personal, and circumscribed 
local scenery, in the genial quietness and freshness of the air outside. 
How busy they all were in their own way, how intent upon their own 
plans, how full of suspicion and criticism of each other! Outside 
all was quiet — the evening wind breathing low, the birds in full 
chorus.. John refreshed himself with a long walk, shaking off his 
discouragement and partial disgust. Peggy Burnet was at her door, 
eager to open the gate for him as he passed. She had just tied a 
blue handkerchief about the pot containing her man’s” tea, which 
her eldest child was about to carry. As he sauntered up the avenue 
this child, a girl about ten, tied up so far as her shoulders were con- 
cerned in a small red-tartan shawl, but with uncovered head and 
bare legs and feet, overtook him, skimming along the road with her 
bundle. She admitted, holding down her head shyly, that she was] 
little Peggy, and was carrying her father his tea. “ He’s up in the fir- 
wood on the top of the hill. He’ll no be back as long as it’s light.” 

But that is a long walk for you,” said John. 

‘Mt’s no twa miles, and I’m fond, fond to get into the woods,” 
said Peggy. She said ‘‘ wudds,” and there was a curious sing-song 
in the speech to John’s unaccustomed ears. When she went on she 
did not courtesy to him, as a well-conditioned English child would 
have done, but gave him a merry nod of her flaxen head, which was 
rough with curls, and sped away noiseless and swift, the red shawl 
over her shoulders, which was carefully knotted round her waist and 
made a bunch of her small person, showing far off through the early 
greenness of the brushwood. When she had gone on a little she 
began to sing like a bird, her sweet young voice rising on the air as 
if it had wings. It was an endless song that Peggy sung, like that of 
Wordsworth’s reaper: 


“ Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could hgve no ending,” 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


67 


It went winding along, a viewless voice, beyond the house, along the 
winding slopes, away into the paleness of the hill-top, where the tall 
pine-trunks stood up like columns against the light. It was like the 
fresh scent of those same pines — like the aromatic peat-smoke in the 
air — a something native to the place, which put the troubles and the 
passions he had stumbled against out of the mind of the young laird. 
He was reconciled somehow to Scotland and to nature by little 
Peggy’s love for the ‘‘wudds,” and the clear ringing melody of her 
endless song. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

In the midst of all the attentions paid him by his neighbors and 
the visitors who followed each other day by day, there was one duty 
which John Erskine had to fulfil, and which made a break in the 
tide of circumstances which seemed to be drifting him toward the 
family at Lindores, and engaging him more and more to follow their 
fortunes. When a life is as yet undecided and capable of turning 
in a new direction, it is common enough, in fact as well as in allegory, 
that a second path should be visible, branching off from the first, in- 
to which the unconscious feet of the wayfarer might still turn, were 
the dangers of the more attractive way divined. There is always 
one unobtrusive turning which leads to the safe track ; but how is 
the traveller to know that, whose soul is all unconscious of special 
importance in the immediate step it takes ? John Erskine contem- 
plated his rapprochement to the Lindores with the greatest com- 
placency and calm. That it could contain any dangers he neither 
knew nor would have believed : he wanted nothing better than to be 
identified with them, to take up their cause and be known as their 
partisan. Nevertheless, Providence silently — without giving him 
any warning — opened up the other path to him, and allowed him in 
ignorance to choose. If he had known, probably it would not have 
made the least difference. Young heroes have never in any known 
history obeyed the dictates of any monitor, either audible or inaudi- 
ble, who warned them against one connection and in favor of an- 
other. Nevertheless, he had his chance, as shall be seen. The 
morning after his first dinner at the castle, which had been the re- 
opening of a delightful world to him, he decided that he had put off 
too long his visit to his only relative, and set off through the soft 
May sunshine, for it was beautiful weather, to pay his respects to his ^ 
old aunt at Dunearn. 

The house of Miss Barbara Erskine at Dunearn opened direct 
from the street. It was one of the same class of homely Scotch 
houses to which Dalrulzian itself belonged ; but whereas Dalrulzian, 
being a mansion-house, had two gables, Miss Barbara’s Lodging, as 
she liked it to be called, had but one, stepping out into the broad 
pathway, not paved, but composed of sand and gravel, which ran 
along one side of the South Street. This gable was broad enough 


68 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


to give considerable size to the drawing-room which filled the upper 
story, and which had windows every way, commanding the street 
and all that went on in it, which was not much. 

The house was entered by an outside stair, which gave admission 
to the first floor, on which all the rooms of ‘‘the family” were, the 
floor below being devoted to the uses of the servants, with the single 
exception of the dining-parlor, which was situated near the kitchen, 
for the convenience of the household. Behind there was a large, 
fragrant, old-fashioned garden full of sweet-smelling flowers, inter- 
spersed with fruit-trees, and going off into vegetables at the lower 
end. Notwithstanding that it was so far north, there were few things 
that would not grow in this garden, and it was a wilderness of 
roses in their season. Except one or two of the pale China kind — 
the monthly rose, as Miss Barbara called it, which is so faithful and 
blows almost all the year round — there were no roses in May ; but 
there was a wealth of spring flowers filling all the borders, and the 
air was faintly sweet as the old lady walked about in the morning 
sunshine enjoying the freshness and stir of budding life. She was a 
portly old lady herself, fresh and fair, with a bright complexion, 
notwithstanding seventy years of wear and tear, and lively hazel eyes 
full of vivacity and inquisitiveness. She was one of the fortunate 
people who take an interest in everything, and to whom life con- 
tinues full of excitement and variety to the end. She walked as 
briskly as though she had been twenty years younger, perhaps more 
so ; for care does not press upon seventy as upon fifty, and 
the only burden upon her ample shoulders was that of years. She 
had a soft white Indian shawl wrapped round her, and a hood with 
very soft blue ribbons tied over her cap. She liked a pretty ribbon 
as well as ever, and was always well dressed. 

From the garden, which sloped downward toward the river, 
there was an extensive view — a prospect of fields and scattered 
farm-houses spreading into blue distance, into the outline of the 
hills, toward the north ; at the right hand the tower of D unearn 
church, which was not more handsome than church towers generally 
are in Scotland ; and to the left, toward the setting sun, a glimpse 
of Tinto arrogantly seated on its plateau. Miss Barbara, as she 
said, “ could not bide” the sight of Tinto House. She had plant- 
ed it out as well as she could ; but her trees were perverse, and 
would separate their branches or die away at the top, as if on pur- 
pose to reveal the upstart. 

On this particular morning of early May, Miss Barbara was not 
alone : she had a young lady by her side, of whose name and pres- 
ence at this particular moment the country was full. There was not 
a house in the neighborhood of any pretensions which she was not 
engaged to visit ; and there was scarcely a family, if truth must 
be told, which was not involv^ed more or less in an innocent conspi- 
racy on her behalf, of which John Erskine, all unconscious, was the 
object. His old aunt, as was befitting, had the first chance. 

“You need not ask me any more questions,” Miss Barbara was 
saying, “for I think you know just as much about the family, and 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


69 


all the families in the country-side, as anybody. You have a fine 
curiosity, Nora ; and, take my word for it, that’s a grand gift, though 
never properly appreciated in this world. It gives you a great deal 
of interest in your youth, and it keeps you from wearying in your old 
age — though that’s a far prospect for you.” 

“ My mother says I am a gossip born,” said Nora, with her 
pretty smile. 

Never you trouble your head about that — take you always an 
interest in your fellow-creatures. Better that than the folk in a 
novelle. Not but that I like a good novelle myself as well as most 
things in this life. It’s just extending your field. It’s like going into 
a new neighborhood. The box is come from the library this morn- 
ing,” said Miss Barbara, in a parenthesis. 

‘‘ Oh yes, I opened it to have a peep. There is ‘ Middlemarch ’ 
and one of Mr. Trollope’s, and several names I don’t know.” 

No ‘ Middlemarch ’ for me,” said Miss Barbara, with a wave 
of her hand. I am too old for that. That means I’ve read it, my 
dear — the way an experienced reader like me can read a thing — in 
the air, in the newspapers, in the way everybody talks. No, that’s 
not like going into a new neighborhood — that is getting to the secrets 
of the machinery, and seeing how everything, come the time, will 
run down, some to ill and harm, but all to downfall, commonplace, 
and prosiness. I have but little pleasure in that. And it’s pleasure 
I want at my time of life. I’m too old to be instructed. If I have 
not learnt my lesson by this time, the more shame to me, my dear.” 

But, Miss Barbara, you don’t want only to be amused. Oh no : 
to have your heart touched, sometimes wrung even — to be so sorry, 
so anxious that you would like to interfere — to follow on and on to 
the last moment through all their troubles, still hoping that things 
will take a good turn.” 

“ And what is that but amusement? ” said the old lady. I am 
not fond of shedding tears ; but even that is a luxury in its way — 
when all the time you are sure that it will hurt nobody, and come all 
right at the end.” 

Lydgate does not turn out all right at the end,” said Nora, 
nor Rosamond either ; they go down and down till you would be 
glad of some dreadful place at last that they might fall into it and 
be made an end of. I suppose it is true to nature,” said the girl, 
with a solemnity coming over her innocent face, “ that if you don’t 
get better you should go on getting worse and worse — but it is dread- 
ful. It is like what one hears of the place— below.” 

Ay, ay, we’re not fond nowadays of the place — below ; but I’m 
afraid there must be some truth in it. That woman has found out 
the secret, you see.” Miss Barbara meant no disrespect to the great 
novelist when she called her that woman.” There was even a cer- 
tain gratification in the use of the term, as who should say, ‘‘ Your 
men, that brag so much of themselves, never found this out” — 
which was a favorite sentiment with the old lady. That’s just 
where she’s grand,” Miss Barbara continued. There’s that young 
lad in the Italian book — Teeto — what d’ye call him? To see him 


70 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


get meaner and meaner, and falser and falser, is an awful picture, 
Nora. It’s just terrible. It’s more than I can stand at my age. I 
want diversion. Do ye think I have not seen enough of that in my 
life ? ” 

‘^People are not bad like that in life,” said Nora ; ‘‘they have 
such small sins — they tell fibs — not big lies that mean anything, but 
small, miserable little fibs ; and they are ill-tempered, and some- 
times cheat a little. That is all. Nothing that is terrible or tragi- 
cal ” 

Here the girl stopped short, with a little gasp, as if realizing some- 
thing she had not thought of before. 

“ What is it, my dear ? ” said Miss Barbara. 

“ Oh — only Tinto showing through the trees ; is that tragedy ? 
No, no. Don’t you see what I mean ? don’t you see the difference ? 
He is only a rough, ill-tempered, tyrannical man. He does not really 
mean to hurt or be cruel ; and poor Lady Car, dear Lady Car, is 
always so wretched ; perhaps she aggravates him a little. She will 
not take pleasure in anything. It is all miserable, but it is all so 
little. Miss Barbara; not tragedy — not like Lear or Hamlet — rather 
a sort of scolding, peevish comedy. You might make fun of it all, 
though it is so dreadful ; and that is how life seems to me — very dif- 
ferent from poetry,” said Nora, shaking her head. 

“Wait,” said Miss Barbara, patting her on the shoulder, “till 
the play is played out and you are farther off. The Lord preserve 
us ! I hope I’m not a prophet of evil ; but maybe if you had known 
poor Lear fighting about the number of his knights with that hard- 
faced woman Regan, for instance (who had a kind of reason, you’ll 
mind, on her side ; for I make no doubt they were very unruly — that 
daft old man would never keep them in order), you would have 
thought it but a poor kind of a squabble. Who is this coming in upon 
us, Nora ? I see Janet at the glass door looking out. 

“ It is a gentleman, Miss Barbara. He is standing talking. I 
think he means to come out here.” 

“ It will be the minister,” said the old lady, calmly. “He had 
far better sit down in the warm room, and send us word, for he’s a 
delicate creature — no constitution in him — aye, cold and coughs, 
and ” 

“ Indeed it is not Mr. Sterling. He is quite young and — and good- 
looking, I think. He won’t listen to Janet. He is coming here. 
Miss Barbara, shall I run away ? ” 

“ Why should you run away ? If it’s business, we’ll go in ; if 
it’s pleasure — Ah I I’ve seen your face before, sir, or one like it, 
but I cannot put a name to it. You have maybe brought me a let- 
ter ? Preserve us all ! will it be John Erskine come home to Dal- 
rulzian ? ” 

“ Yes, Aunt Barbara, it is John Erskine,” said the young man. 
He had his hat in one hand, and the sun shone pleasantly on his 
chestnut locks and healthful countenance. He did not perhaps look 
like a hero of romance, but he looked like a clean and Aurtuous 
young Englishman. He took the hand which Miss Barbara held out 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


71 


to him eagerly, and, with a little embarrassment, not knowing what 
else to do, bent over it and kissed it — a salutation which took the old 
lady by surprise, and, being unusual, brought a delicate color to her 
old cheek. 

‘^Ah, my man! and so you’re John Erskine ? I would have 
known you anywhere, at the second glance ifnotatthe first. You’re 
like your father, poor fellow. He was always a great favorite with 
me. And so you’ve come back to your ain at last ! Well, I’m very 
glad to see you, John. It’s natural to have a young Erskine in the 
country-side. You’ll not know yet how you like it after all this long 
absence. And how is your mother, poor body ? She would think 
my pity out of place, I don’t doubt ; but Pm always sorry for a young 
woman, sore hadden down with a sma’ family, as we say here in the 
North.'’ 

“ I don’t think she is at all sorry for herself,” said John, with a 
laugh, but it must be allowed there is a lot of them. There are al- 
ways heaps of children, you know, in a parson’s house.” 

And that is true ; it’s a wonderful dispensation,” said Miss 
Barbara, piously, to keep us down and keep us humble-minded in 
our position in life. But I’m real glad to see you, and you must tell 
me where you’ve come from, and all you’ve been doing. We’ll take 
a turn round the garden and see my flowers, and then we’ll take you 
in and give you your luncheon. You’ll be ready for your luncheon 
after your walk. Or did you ride ? This is Miss Nora Barrington, 
that knows Dalrulzian better than you do, John. Tell Janet, my 
dear, we’ll be ready in an hour, and she must do her best for Mr. 
John.” 

While this greeting went on Nora had been standing very de- 
murely with her hands crossed looking on. She was a girl full of 
romance and imagination, as a girl ought to be, and John Erskine 
had long been something of a hero to her. Nora was in that condi- 
tion of spring-time and anticipation when every new encounter looks 
as if it might produce untold consequences in the future, still so 
vague, so sweet, so unknown. She stood with her eyes full of sub- 
dued light, full of soft excitement, and observation, and fun ; for 
where all was so airy and uncertain there was room for fun too, it 
being always possible that the event, which might be serious or even 
tragic, might at the same time be only a pleasantry in life. Nora 
seemed to herself to be a spectator of what was perhaps happening 
to herself. Might this be hereafter a scene in her existence, like 
the first meeting between” — say Antony and Cleopatra, say Romeo 
and Juliet ? Several pictures occurred to her of such scenes. At one 
time there were quite a number of them in all the picture-galleries. 
‘‘ First meeting of Edward IV. with Elizabeth Woodville : ’ where, 
all unconscious, the fair widow kneels, the gallant monarch sees in 
his suppliant his future queen. All this was fun to Nora, but very 
romantic earnest all the same. The time might come when this 
stranger would say to her, Do you remember that May morning in 
old Aunt Barbara’s garden ? ” and she might reply, How little we 
imagined then ! ” Thus Nora, with a shy delight, forestalled in the 


72 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


secret recesses of her soul the happiness that might never come, and 
yet made fun of her own thoughts all in the same breath. John’s 
bow to her was not half so graceful or captivating as his salutation to 
Miss Barbara, but that was nothing ; and she went away with a pleas- 
ant sense of excitement to instruct Janet about the luncheon and the 
new-comer. Miss Barbara’s household w’as much moved by the ar- 
rival. Janet, who was the housekeeper, lingered in the little hall 
into which the garden door opened, looking out with a curiosity 
which she did not think it necessary to disguise ; and Agnes, Miss 
Barbara’s own woman, stood at the staircase-window half-way up. 
When Nora came in those two personages were conversing freely on 
the event. 

‘‘ He’s awfu’ like the Erskines : just the cut of them about the 

shouthers, and that lang neck ” 

Do you ca’ that a lang neck — nae langer than is very becom- 
ing ?* I like the head carried high. He has his father’s walk,” said 
Agnes, pensively ; many’s the time I’ve watched him alang the 
street. He was the best-looking of all the Erskines ; if he hadna 

marriet a bit handless creature ” 

Handless or no handless,” said Janet, matters little in that 
condition o’ life.” 

Eh, but it mattered muckle to him. He might have been a liv- 
ing man this day if there had been a little mair sense in her head. 
She might have made him change his wet feet and all his dreeping 
things when he came in from the hill-side. It was the planting of 
yon trees that cost bonny Johnny Erskine his life. The mistress was 
aye of that opinion. Eh, to think when ye have a man, that ye 
shouldna be able to take care of him ! ” said Agnes, with a sort of 
admiring wonder. She had never attained that dignity herself. 
Janet, who was a widow, gave a glance upward at the pensive old 
maiden of mingled condescension and contempt. 

And if ye had a man ye would be muckle made up wi’ him,” 
she said. It’s grand to be an auld maid, for that — that ye aye 
keep your faith in the men. This ane ’ll be for a wife, too, like a’ 

the rest. I could gie him a word in his ear ” 

It will be something for our young misses to think about. A 
fine young lad, and a bonny house. He’ll have a’ our siller, besides 
his ain — and that will be a grand addition ” 

‘Mf he behaves himsel ! ” said Janet. ‘‘The mistress is a real 
sensible woman. You’ll no see her throw away her siller upon a 
prodigal, if he were an Erskine ten times over.” 

“ And wha said he was a prodigal ? ” cried Agnes, turning round 
from the landing upon her fellow-servant, who was at once her 
natural opponent and bosom friend. Nora was of opinion by this 
time that she had listened long enough. 

“ Miss Barbara says that her nephew will stay to luncheon, 
Janet. You are to do your best for him. It is Mr. Erskine, from 
Dalrulzian,” Nora said, with most unnecessary explanation. Janet 
turned round upon her quietly, yet with superior dignity. 

“ By this time of day. Miss Nora,” said Janet, “ I think I ken 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


73 


an Erskine when I see him ; and al-so, when a visitor enters this door 
at twelve o’clock at noon, that he’ll stay to his lunch, and that I 
maun to do my best.” 

It is not my fault,” cried the girl, half amused, half apologetic. 

I tell you only, Janet, what Miss Barbara said. Perhaps it was 
to get rid of me, to send me in-doors out of the way.” 

Naething more likely,” said the housekeeper. She canna 
be fashed with strangers when her ain are at her hand.” 

Woman ! ” cried Agnes, from the landing, how dare you say 
sae of my mistress ? You’ll never mind, Miss Nora. Come up 
here, my bonny young leddy, and you’ll have a grand sight of him 
among the trees.” 

Ay, glower at him,” said Janet, as she went away. ‘‘ You would- 
na be so muckle ta’en up with them if ye kent as much about men 
as me.” 

Na, you’ll pay no attention,” said Agnes, anxiously ; it’s no 
real malice — ^just she thinks she has mair experience. And so she 
has mair experience — the only marriet woman in the house. There’s 
your mamma, with a bonny family, takes nothing upon her, no more 
than if she was a single person ; but Janet has it a’ her ain way. Stand 
you here, Miss Nora, at this corner, and you’ll have a grand sight of 
him. He’s behind the big bourtree-bush ; but in a moment — in a 
moment ” 

I don’t want to see Mr. Erskine,” said Nora, laughing. I 
have seen him ; most likely I shall see him at lunch. He is just 
like other people — like dozens of gentlemen ” 

‘‘Eh, but when you think that you never ken what may happen — 
yon may be the man, for all we ken ! ” 

When Agnes thus put into words the idea which had (she 
would not deny it to herself) glanced through Nora’s own mind, she 
was so hypocritical as to laugh, as at a great piece of absurdity — 
but at the same time so honest as to blush. 

“ I believe you are always thinking of — that sort of thing,” she 
said. 

“ Awfu’ often. Miss Nora,” said Agnes, unabashed — especial- 
ly when there’s young folk about ; and after a’ is there onything 
that’s sae important ? There’s me and the mistress, we’ve stood 
aloof from a’ that ; but I canna think it’s been for oor happiness. 
Her — it was her ain doing ; but me — it’s a very strange thing to say 
— I’ve kent many that were far from my superiors — as far as a per- 
son can judge — that have had twa-three offers ; but me, I never 
had it in my power. You’ll think it a very strange thing, Miss 
Nora ? ” 

“ I know,” said Nora ; “and you so pretty. It is quite extraor- 
dinary.” This was the reply that Agnes expected to her favorite 
confession. She was still pretty at fifty — slim and straight, with 
delicate features, and that ivory complexion which we associate with 
refinement and good blood ; and the old waiting-woman knew how 
to faire valoir her fine person and features. She was dressed deli- 
cately in a black gown, with a white kerchief of spotless net — like a 

4 


74 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


lady, everybody said. She shook her head, with a smile of melan- 
choly consciousness. 

It’s no looks that does it,” she said ; it’s — well, I canna tell. 
It’s when you ken how to humor them and flatter them. But bless 
me, there’s Janet, a woman that never flattered man nor woman 
either ! I canna understand it — it’s beyond me. But you mustna 
follow the mistress. Miss Nora. She’s a happy woman enough, and 
a bonny woman for her age, coming up there under her ain trees — 
just look at her. But if that young lad had been her son, instead of 
just a distant cousin ” 

Oh, but boys give a great deal of trouble,” said Nora, seriously. 

Dear Miss Barbara, I like her best as she is.” 

But you munna follow her example, my bonny leddy — you mun- 
na follow her example. Take a pattern by your ain mammaw. I ca’ 
her a happy woman, young yet, and a good man, and a bonny posie 
of bairns. Eh ! I ca’ her a happy woman. And takes no-thing upon 
her ! ” said Agnes — no-thing upon her. You’ll come up the stair. 
Miss Nora, and look at yoursel in the glass. Oh no, there’s no-thing 
wrang with your bonny hair. I like it just so — a wee blown about in 
the mornin’ air. Untidy ! bless me, no the least untidy ! but 
just — give a look in the glass, and if you think another color would 
be more becoming, I have plenty ribbons. Some folk thinks yellow’s 
very artistic ; but the mistress canna bide yellow. She’s owre fair 
for it, and so are you.” 

Why should I change my ribbon ? It is quite tidy,” said Nora, 
almost with indignation, standing before Miss Barbara’s long cheval- 
glass. Agnes came and stood behind her, arranging her little collar 
and the draperies of her dress with caressing hands. And, to tell 
the truth, Nora herself could not shut out from her mind an agree- 
able consciousness that she was looking ‘‘ rather nice — for me,” she 
added, in her own mind. The morning breeze had ruffled an incip- 
ient curl out of the hair which she had brushed, demure and smooth, 
over her forehead in the morning. It was a thing that nobody sus- 
pected when she was fresh from her toilet, but the wind always found 
out that small eccentricity, and Nora was not angry with the wind. 
Her ribbon was blue, and suited her far better than the most artistic 
yellow. All was fresh and fair about her, like the spring morning. 
“ Na ; I wouldna change a thing,” Agnes said, looking at her anx- 
iously in the glass, where they made the prettiest picture, the hand- 
some old maid looking like a lady-in-waiting, her fine head appear- 
ing over the girl’s shoulder — a lady-in-waiting anxiously surveying 
her princess, about to meet for the first time with King Charming, 
who has come to marry her. This was the real meaning of the 
group. 

Nora did not change her ribbon or her own appearance in any 
way, but she gave a glance to the table set out for luncheon, and re- 
newed the flowers on it, watching all the while the other group which 
passed and repassed the large round window of the dining-room, 
their voices audible as they talked. Miss Barbara had taken John’s 
arm, which was a proof that he had found the way to her favor ; and 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


75 


she was evidently asking him a hundred questions. Snatches of their 
talk about his travels, about his plans, something which she could 
not make out about the Lindores, caught the ear of Nora. They saw 
her seated near the window, so there could be no reason why she 
should stop her ears. And Nora thought him very nice ” — that all- 
useful adjective. She could scarcely help letting her imagination 
stray to the familiar place which she had known all her life — her 
dear Dalrulzian,” which she had lamented so openly, which now 
she felt it would no longer be decorous to lament. He looked very 
like it, she thought. She could see him in imagination standing in 
the kindly open door, on the Walk, looking the very master the place 
wanted. Papa had been too. old for it. It wanted a young man, a 
young — Well— she laughed and colored involuntarily — of course a 
young wife too. In all likelihood that was all settled, the young wife 
ready, so that there was no reason to feel any embarrassment about 
it. And so he knew the Lindores ! She would ask Edith all about 
him. There was no doubt he was a very interesting figure in the 
country-side, something for the misses to think about,” as Agnes 
said, though it was somewhat humiliating to think that dreadful 
man at Tinto ” had roused a similar excitement. But the oftener 
John Erskine passed the window the more he pleased Nora Barring- 
ton. He was very nice,” she was sure. How kind and careful he 
was of Miss Barbara ! How frank and open his countenance ! his 
voice and his laugh so natural and cheerful ! Up to this time, though 
Nora’s imagination had not been utterly untouched, she was still free 
of any serious inclination, almost if not entirely fancy-free. It could 
not be denied that when the new Rintoul became known in the coun- 
try-side he, too, had been the object of many prognostications. And 
he had been, she felt, very nice” to Nora. Though he had preten- 
sions far above hers, and was not in the least likely to ally himself to 
a family without fortune, his advances had been such as a girl can- 
not easily overlook. He was the first who had paid Nora atten- 
tion ” and awakened her to a consciousness of power. And she had 
been flattered and pleased, being very young. But Nora now felt her- 
self at that junction of the two roads, which, as has been said, is inev- 
itable in the experience of every young soul. She was standing in 
suspense, saying to herself, with a partial sense of treachery and guilt, 
that Mr. Erskine was still more nice than Lord Rintoul. John Ers- 
kine of Dalrulzian — there was something delightful in the very name. 
All this, it is true, was entirely visionnry, without solid foundation 
of any kind ; for they had exchanged nothing but two shy bows, not 
a word as yet — and whether he would be as “ nice ” when he talked, 
Nora did not know. 

Her decision afterward, made with some mortification, was, that 
he was not nearly so nice when he talked. He showed po wish to 
talk to her at all, which was an experience quite out of Nora’s way'. 
She sat and listened, for the most part, at this simple banquet, 
growing angry in spite of herself, and altogether changing her opin- 
ion about Lord Rintoul. If she had been a little girl out of the 
nursery John Erskine could scarcely have taken less notice of her. 


76 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


Miss Barbara and he continued their talk as if Nora had no existence 
at all. 

I always thought it a great pity that you were brought up so 
far from home/' the old lady said. You know nothing about your 
own place, or the ways of the country-side. It will take you a long 
time to make that up. But the neighbors are all very kind, and 
Lindores, no doubt, will be a great resource, now there’s a young 
family in it. Fortunately for you, John, you’re not grand enough 
nor rich enough to come into my lord’s plans.” 

Has my lord plans ? For county hospitals and lunatic asy- 
lums. So he told me; and he wants my help. To hear even so 
much as that astonished me. When I knew him he was an elegant 
hypochondriac, doing nothing at all ” 

He docs plenty now, and cares much for the world, and the 
things of the world,” said Miss Barbara. I think I have divined 
his meaning; but we’ll wait and see. You need not sit and make 
those faces at me, Nora. I know well enough // 2 <?/are not to blame. 
A woman should know how to stand up for her own child better 
than that ; but she was just struck helpless with surprise — I say 
nothing different. Speak of manoeuvring mothers ! manoeuvring 
fathers are a great deal worse. I cannot away with a man that will 
sacrifice his own flesh and blood. Fiegh ! I would not do it for a 
kingdom. And the son, you’ll see, will do the same. Hold your 
tongue, Nora. I know better — the son will do the very same. He 
will be sold to some grocer’s daughter for her hogsheads. Perhaps 
they’re wanted ; two jointures to pay is hard upon any estate, and a 
title will always bring in money when it’s put up for sale in a judi- 
cious way. But you must have your wits about you now if you have 
any dealings with your elegant hypochondriac, John, my man. 
You’re too small — too small for him ; but if you had fifty thousand 
a year you would soon — soon be helpless in his hands ” 

Oh, Miss Barbara,” cried Nora, you are unjust to Lord Lin- 
dores. Remember how kind he has been to us, and we have not 
fifty thousand nor fifty hundred a year.” 

You’re not a young man,” said Miss Barbara ; but, John, 
take you care of dangling about Lindores. I am not naming any 
names ; but there may be heartaches gotten there — nothing more 
for a man of your small means. Oh ay ! perhaps I ought to hold 
my tongue before Nora ; but she will be well advised if she takes 
care too ; and besides, she knows all about it as well as I do my- 
self.” 

I hope,” said John, courteously — for he saw that Nora’s com- 
posure was disturbed by these last warnings, and he was glad of a 
chance to change the subject — 1 hope I may be so fortunate as to 
see Colonel Barrington before he leaves the country. He has done 
so well by Dalrulzian I should like to thank him for his care.” 

This made Nora more red than before. She could not get over 
that foolish idea that Dalrulzian was far more to her than to this 
stranger, who could not care for it as she did. She felt that his 
thanks were an offence. “ Papa has gone, Mr. Erskine,” she said, 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


77 


with unusual stateliness. I am left behind to pay some visits. 
Everybody here has been so good to us.” 

That means we are all fond of her bit bright face,” said Miss 
Barbara j “ but we’ll say no more on that subject, Nora. Human 
nature’s selfish in grain. The like of me will take no trouble for 
lad or lass that is not sweet to see and a comfort to the heart.” 

I never heard such a pretty apology for selfishness before,” 
said John. And Miss Barbara took his compliment in good part. 
But he and Nora made no farther approach to each other. Those 
praises of her made him draw back visibly, she thought, and em- 
barrassed herself beyond bearing. To be praised before an unsym- 
pathetic, silently protesting audience — can anything be more humil- 
iating? Nora was conscious of something like dislike of John 
Erskine before he went away. 

And yet his state of feeling was natural enough. He believed 
that the young lady so dangerously suitable for him, the very wife 
he wanted, was being thrust upon him on every side, and the 
thought revolted him. No doubt, he thought, if she were conscious 
of it, it must be revolting to her too ; and in such a case the highest 
politeness was to be all but rude to her, to show at once and con- 
clusively that schemes of the kind were hopeless. This sentiment 
was strengthened in the present case by the irritation caused by Miss 
Barbara’s warning about Lindores, and the heartache which was all 
that a man of his means was likely to get there. He laughed at it, 
yet it made him angry. He who had been always used to feel him- 
self a person of importance — he for whom, even now, the whole 
country was taking the trouble to scheme — to have himself suddenly 
classified with other small deer as quite beneath the consideration 
of the Lindores family, too small for my lord’s plans ! It was scarce- 
ly possible to imagine anything more irritating. After all, a Scotch 
lord is no such grand affair ; and John could not be ignorant that, 
five years ago, neither father nor mother would have repulsed him. 
Now ! but the doubt, the risk, did not induce the young man to be 
wise — to put Lady Edith out of his imagination, and turn his thoughts 
to the other. Just as pretty, if that were all, who was manifestly 
within his reach. What a pity that young people are so slow to see 
reason in such matters that they will never take the wiser way ! 
Thus John had his opportunity offered to him to escape from a 
world of troubles and embarrassments before he had committed 
himself to that dangerous path ; and distinctly refused, and turned 
his back upon it, not knowing — as, indeed, at the real turning-point 
of our fortunes we none of us know. 

But as he set out on his homeward walk his eyes caught that 
great house of Tinto, which from Dunearn was the central object in 
the landscape — an immense house, seated on a high platform of rock, 
dominating the river and the whole country, with scarcely wood 
enough about it to afford any shadow ; an ostentatious pile of build- 
ing, with that spot of audacious red against the gray sky — the flag 
always flying (set him up ! Miss Barbara said) when the master was 
at home, which was, so to speak, the straw which broke the camel’s 


7S 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


back, the supreme piece of vanity which the county could not tole- 
rate. Pat Torrance to mount a flag upon his house to mark his 
presence ! What more could Sacred Majesty itself do ? John Ers- 
kine felt as if some malicious spirit had thrown a stone at him out 
of the clouds as his eye -was caught by that flaunting speck of red. 
Pie felt all the local intolerance of the man, without a claim but his 
money to crow thus over his neighbors. And then he thought of 
Carry Lindores and her poetry and enthusiasm. That was how the 
earl disposed of his daughters. A thrill ran through John’s frame, 
but it was a thrill of defiance. Pie raised his stick unawares and 
waved it, as if at the big bully who thus scorned him from afar. 


CHAPTER IX. 

Lady Caroline Torrance was in her morning- room with her 
children when her husband came to tell her of his visit to Dalrulzian. 
He had kept it for twenty-four hours, in order to have an opportu- 
nity of telling it at his leisure, and making it as disagreeable to 
her as possible ; for, indeed, he was fully convinced in his own 
mind that John had been the man about whom his broken-hearted 
bride had made a confession to him. The confession had not dis- 
armed or moved him to generosity : not that his delicacy was 
wounded by the thought of his wife’s engagement to some one else 
before she saw him — no such fantastical reason moved him ; but 
that he was furious at the thought that this unseen personage still 
remained agreeable to her, and that in secret she could retire upon 
the recollection of some one whom she had once preferred, or per- 
haps did now prefer, to himself. This was insupportable to him. 
He did not care very much for filling her heart himself ; but he 
meant that she should belong to him utterly, and not at all, even in 
imagination or by a passing thought, to anybody else. 

Lady Car’s morning-room was the last of a gorgeous but faded 
suite of rooms opening off the drawing-room, from which it was 
separated by heavy velvet curtains. Everything was heavy and 
grand even in this sanctuary, where it was supposed the lady of the 
house was to find her refuge when no longer on duty, so to speak — 
no longer bound to sit in state and receive her visitors. It was fur- 
nished, like the rest, with gilded chairs, a table of Florentine 
mosaic, and curtains of ruby velvet looped and puckered into what 
the upholsterer of the late Mrs. Torrance’s time thought the most 
elegant and sumptuous fashion. The gilding was a little tarnished, 
the velvet faded ; but still it was too fine for anything less than a 
royal habitation. 

It is supposed that princesses, being used to it, like to knock 
their elbows against ormolu ornaments, and to put down their thim- 
bles and scissors (if they ever use such vulgar implements) upon 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


79 


marble ; but poor Lady Car did not. She was chilly by nature, and 
she never had got over her horror of these additional chillinesses. 
The Florentine marble made her shiver. It was far too fine to have a 
cover over it, which she had ventured once to suggest, to her husband’s 
horror. What ! cover it up, as if it were plain mahogany — a thing 
that was worth no one could tell how much ! ” So she gave it up, 
and shivered all the more. It was a chilly day of May, which the 
fresh foliage outside, and a deceitful sun not strong enough to neu- 
tralize the east wind, made only a little less genial, and Lady 
Car sat very close to the fire, in a chair as little gilt as could be 
found, and with a little table beside her covered with a warm and 
heavy cover, as if to make up for the naked coldness of the rest. 
The room had three large windows, looking, from the platform upon 
which the house stood, over the wide country — a great landscape full 
of greening fields and foliage, and an infinite blue and white sky, the 
blue somewhat pale but very clear, the clouds mounting in Alpine 
peaks into the far distance and lying along the horizon in long lines. 
The windows, it need not be said, were plate-glass, so that an im- 
pression of being out-of-doors and exposed to the full keenness of 
the breeze was conveyed to the mind. 

How often had poor Lady Car sat and shivered, looking over that 
wistful sweep of distance in her loneliness, and knowing that no one 
could ever come out of it who would bring joy to her or content ! 
She had never been beautiful, the reader is aware. She was plain 
now, in the absence of all that sunshine and happiness which beau- 
tifies and brightens homely faces. And yet her face was not a 
homely face. The master of Tinto had got what he wanted — a wo- 
man whose appearance could never be overlooked, or whom any one 
could undervalue. Her air was full of natural distinction though she 
had no beauty. Her slight, pliant figure, like a long sapling bending 
before every breeze, had a grace of gentle yielding which did not 
look like weakness ; and her smile, if perhaps a little timid, was 
winning and gracious. But her nose and her upper lip were both too 
long, and the pretty wavering color she had possessed in her youth 
had gone altogether. Ill-natured people called her sallow ; and in- 
deed, though it is not a pretty word, it was not, at this stage of her 
existence, far from the truth. 

Her two children were playing beside her on the carpet. Poor 
lady ! here was, perhaps, the worst circumstance in her hard lot. As 
if it were not enough to be compelled to take Pat Torrance for her 
husband, it had been her melancholy fate to bring other Torrances, 
all his in temper and feature, into the world. This is an aggravation 
of which nobody would have thought. In imagination we are all 
glad to find a refuge for an unhappy wife in her children, whom in- 
stinctively we allot to her as the natural compensation — creatures 
like herself and belonging to her, although th’e part in them of the 
obnoxious father cannot be ignored. But here the obnoxious father 
was all in all ; even the baby of two years old on the rug at her feet, 
the little girl who by all the laws ought to have been like her mother, 
showed in her little dark countenance as small relationship to Lady 


8o 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


Caroline as to any stranger. They were their father’s children : 
they had his black hair, a peculiarity which sometimes is extremely 
piquant and attractive in childhood, giving an idea of unusual de- 
velopment ; but, on the other hand, sometimes is — not. 

Little Tom and Eddie were of those to whom it is not attractive, 
for they had heavy, fat cheeks, and the same light, large, projecting 
eyes which were so marked a feature in their father’s face. Poor 
Lady Car thought they fixed their eyes upon her with a cynical gaze 
when she tried to sing to them — to tell them baby-stories. She tried 
her best, but that was, perhaps, too fine for these children of a 
coarser race. They scrambled down from her lap, and liked better 
to roll upon the floor, or break with noisy delight the toys which 
were showered upon them, leaving the poor young mother to gaze 
and wonder, and feel as much rebuffed as if these two infants of two 
and three had been twenty years older. They screamed with delight 
when their father tossed them up in his arms, but they escaped from 
their mother’s knee when she would have coaxed them to quiet. 
Poor Lady Car ! they were a wonder and perplexity to her. She 
was half afraid of them, though they were her own. 

Torrance had come in from the woods, which he had been in- 
specting with his forester, and perhaps something had crossed him 
in this inspection, for he was a tyrant by nature, and could not 
tolerate a contrary opinion ; whereas the officials, so to speak, of a 
great estate in Scotland are much given to opinions, and by no 
means to be persuaded to relinquish them. The forester had ob- 
jected to something the master suggested, and the agent had taken 
the forester’s part. The master of Tinto came in fuming. To give 
in was a thing intolerable to him, and to give in to his own servant ! 
But here was another servant whom he need not fear bullying, who 
could not throw up her situation and put him to inconvenience, who 
was forced to put up with as much indignity as he chose to put upon 
her. This thought gave his mind a welcome relief ; he strode 
along through all the gilded rooms with a footstep which meant mis- 
chief. Lady Caroline heard it afar off, and recognized the sound. 
What could it be now ? Her mind ran hurriedly over the recent 
occurrences of the day, to think what possible offence she could 
have given him. Nothing — or at least she could think of nothing. 
It did not require a very solid reason for the transference to her 
shoulders of the rage which he did not think it expedient to bestow 
upon some one else. He came in kicking out of the way the toys 
with which the children were playing. 

These monkeys,” he said, “ would ruin a Jew if they grow up 
the way you are breeding them, my lady. That cost a pound or two 
yesterday, and now it’s all in bits. If your family could stand such 
extravagance, mine can’t. Tom, my lad, if you break your fine 
toys like this. I’ll break your head. But it’s not the children’s 
fault,” he added, it’s the way they’re bred.” 

It is very wrong of Tommy,” said poor Lady Car, but you 
laughed and clapped your hands yesterday when I found fault.” 

I won’t have the boy’s spirit broken — that’s another thing. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


8i 


Breeding’s an affair of day by day ; but it can’t be expected that 
you should take such trouble, with your head full of other things.” 

‘‘ What other things ?” cried Lady Car. Oh, Pat, have a little 
pity ! What else have I to think of ? I may not understand the 
children, but they are my only thought.” 

Here he gave a mocking, triumphant laugh. No, I dare say 
you don’t understand them. They’re of my side of the house,” he 
said. It was a pleasure to him, but not an unalloyed pleasure, for 
he would have liked to secure in his daughter at least some reflec- 
tion of her mother’s high-bred air, which had always been her at- 
traction in his eyes. ‘‘ As for other things,” he added, there’s 
plenty : for instance, I have just been visiting your old friend.” 

My old friend ? ” Lady Caroline looked at him with wonder- 
ing eyes. 

Oh, that is the way, is it ? pretend you don’t understand ! I 
went expressly for your sake. You see what a husband I am : not 
half appreciated — ready to please his wife in every sort of way. I 
don’t think much of your taste, though : under size,” said Torrance, 
with a laugh — decidedly under size.” 

Lady Car looked at him with a momentary elevation of her slen- 
der, drooping throat. The action was one that had a certain pride 
in it, and this was what her husband specially admired in her. But 
she did not understand him, nor was there any secret in her gentle 
soul to be found out by innuendoes. She shook her head gently, 
and drooped it again with her habitual bend. 

do not know what you mean. It must be some mistake,” 
she said. 

It is no mistake, Lady Car. That’s not my way to make mis- 
takes. It suits you not to know. That makes me all the more cer- 
tain. Oh, I’m not afraid of you. We’re not in Italy or any of these 
places. And you’re a great deal too proud to go wrong : you’re too 
cold, you have not got it in you.” 

Lady Caroline raised her head again, but this time inifcheer sur- 
prise. Pat,” she said, faltering, “ all I know is, that you mean to 
insult me. I know nothing but that. What is it ? Do not insult 
me before the children.” 

Pshaw ! how should the children understand ? ” 

‘‘Not what you mean ; but neither do I understand that. The 
children know as well as I do that you mean to hurt me. What is 
it ? what have I done ? ” 

“By Jove!” he said, looking at her, “to see you there, with 
your white face, one would think you never had done anything but 
good all your life. You look as if butter would not melt in your 
mouth. Not the sort of woman to look down upon her husband and 
count him a savage, and keep thinking of a nice, smooth, soft-spoken 
— You would never tell me his name, and I was a fool, and didn’t 
insist upon it; but now he has come back to be your ladyship’s 
neighbor, and see you every day.” 

She did not answer immediately. She looked at him with a 
curious light stealing into her soft gray eyes, raising her head again. 

4 * 


82 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


Then she said, slowly, I think you must mean Mr. Erskine of 
Dalrulzian. If so, you have made a great mistake, I think he is 
younger than I am. He was not much more than a boy when I knew 
him. He never was anything — but an acquaintance.” 

It’s likely you’ll get me to believe that ! ” cried Torrance, scorn- 
fully. He jumped up from his seat, and came and stood in b*ont of 
the fire, with his back to it, brushing against her dress, so close to 
her that she had to draw back out of his way. ‘‘An acquaintance! 
There are different meanings to that word. I’ve been to see him on 
your account, my lady. I’ve asked him to come here. Oh, I’m not 
afraid of you, as I tell you. You’re too cold and too proud to go 
wrong. You shall see him as much as you like — I have every con- 
fidence in you — see him, and talk to him, and tell him what you 
think of your husband. It will be a nice sentimental amusement for 
you ; and as for me. I’ll always be by to look on.” 

He laughed as he spoke, angrily, fiercely, and glared down upon 
her from under his eyelids with a mixture of fury and satisfaction. 
She pushed her chair back a little, with a shiver, drawing away her 
dress, upon which he had placed his foot. 

“ If it was as you suppose,” she said, trembling, “ what misery 
you would be planning for me ! It makes me cold, indeed, to think 
of such cruelty. What! you would put me in such a strait! You 
would force me into the society of one — Oh, Pat, surely you are 
doing yourself wrong ! You could not be so cruel as that ! ” 

He laughed again, striding across the fireplace, ever encroaching 
more upon her corner. His face had grown red with wrath. He 
was not without feeling, such as it was, and this, which he supposed 
his wife’s acknowledgment that this cruel device could indeed wound 
her, gave himself a start of self-reproach and alarm, though there 
was pleasure in the power he felt he had acquired of causing pain. 

“ Ah, I’ve caught you, have I ? I’ve caught you at last ! ” he 
cried, with a tone of triumph. 

“You could not do it ! ” cried Lady Caroline, her pale face flush- 
ed. “No! do not say you made such a cruel plan — no, no ! — to 
entrap the poor woman who is your wife — alas ! who never did you 
harm — to rend her heart in two, and make her life more miserable. 
No, no ! do not tell me you have this cunning as well as — all the rest ; 
do not tell me ! You would not do it, you could not do it. There is 
no such cruelty in man.” 

“ It’s a satisfaction,” he cried, his face burning and glowing, “to 
think I have you in my grip. Lady Car ? ” 

She breathed quick and hard, pushed back in her corner, gazing 
up at him with a look from which a stronger tremor had taken all 
the timidity. It was some time before she could speak. “ Do not 
think,” she said, “ that I am afraid of you. I am only horrified, to 
think-— But I might have known. Mr. Erskine, by whom you 
think you can make me more unhappy, is nothing to me — nothing, 
nothing at all, nothing at all! He is not the gentleman I thought it 
right to tell you about — no, no ! a very different person. I do not 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 83 

want to see him, because I should not like — old friends to know ; 
but Mr. Erskine is nothing to me — nothing ! ” 

Whether he would have been convinced by the vehemence with 
which she said this alone cannot be known, for at that moment the 
carefully festooned velvet curtains were disturbed in the regulated 
folds which nobody at Tinto had ever ventured to alter, and Edith sud- 
denly appeared, with an anxious and pale countenance. She had heard 
the raised voices as she approached, and her sister’s ‘‘nothing to 
me, nothing ! ” had been quite distinct to her as she came in. She 
could not imagine what it was that could have excited poor Carry 
so much, and Edith had a nervous dislike of any scene. She could’ 
not draw back, having with difficulty sent away the servant who was 
conducting her punctiliously to her sister’s presence, and she felt 
herself compelled to face the quarrel, which was evidently a serious 
one. Edith was fastidious and sensitive, with all the horror of a girl 
who had never seen anything like domestic contention or the jars of 
family life. Lord Lindores and his wife had not always agreed since 
his recent elevation — indeed, they had disagreed bitterly and pain- 
fully on the most serious questions ; but such a thing as a quarrel 
had been unknown in their household. To Edith it seemed such an 
offence against good taste and all the courtesies of life as nothing 
could excuse — petty and miserable, as well as unhappy and wrong. 
She was annoyed as well as indignant to be drawn into it thus against 
her will. Carry had hitherto concealed with all her might from her 
young sister the state of conflict in which she lived. Her unhappi- 
ness she did not hide ; but she had managed to keep silent in Edith’s 
presence, so that the girl had never been an actual witness of the 
wranglings of the ill-matched pair. But poor Lady Car for once was 
moved out of her usual precautions. She was too much excited 
even to remember them. She appealed to her sister at once, hailing 
her appearance with eagerness, and without pausing to think. 

“ Edith,” she cried, “ you have come in time. Tell Mr. Tor- 
rance that Mr. Erskine, who has just come home, was not a — special 
friend of mine. You can speak, for you know. Mr. Torrance says 
— he thinks — ” Here Lady Car came to herself, perceiving the 
disturbed looks of her sister, and remembering her own past reserve. 
She paused, and forced herself into a miserable smile. “It is not 
worth while entering into the story, ” she said ; “ it does not — mat- 
ter much. It is only a mistake, a — a difference of opinion. You 
can tell Mr. Torrance ” 

“ I don’t want any information,” said Torrance, sulkily. He, 
too, felt embarrassed by the sudden introduction of Edith into the 
discussion. He moved away from the fire with a rude attempt at 
civility. Edith, in her youthful absolutism, and want of toleration 
or even understanding of himself, overawed him a little. She was 
not, he thought, nearly so aristocratic in appearence as his wife ; 
but he was slightly afraid of her, and had never been at bis ease in 
her presence. What was the opinion of this little chit to him ? He 
asked himself the question often, but it did not divest him of that 
vague perception of his own appearance in her eyes, which is the. 


84 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


most mortifying of all reflections. No caricature made of us can be 
so disconcerting. Just so Haman must have seen himself, a wretched 
pretender, through the eyes of that poor Jew in the gate. Torrance 
saw himself an exaggerated boor, a loud-speaking, underbred clown, 
in the clear regard, a little contemptuous, never for a moment over- 
awed by him, of Edith Lindores. He had, perhaps, believed his 
wife’s denial in respect to John Erskine while they were alone, but he 
believed her entirely when she called Edith to witness. He was 
subdued at once — he drew away from before the fire with sulky 
politeness, and pushed forward a chair. It’s a cold day, ” he said. 
The quarrel died in a moment a natural death. He hung about the 
room for a few minutes, while Edith, to lessen the embarrassment of 
the situation, occupied herself with the children. As for Lady Car, 
she had been too much disturbed to return at once to the pensive 
calm which was her usual aspect. She leaned back in her chair, 
pushed up into the corner as she had been by her husband’s ap- 
proach, and with her thin hands clasped together. Her breath still 
came fast, her poor breast heaved with the storm — she said nothing to 
aid in the gradual restoration of quiet. The spell being once broken, 
perhaps she was not sorry for the opportunity of securing Edith’s sym- 
pathy. There is a consolation in disclosing such pangs, especially 
when the creator of them is unbeloved. To tell the cruelties to 
which she was subject, to pour out her wrongs, seemed the only 
relief which poor Carry could look forward to. It had not been her 
will to betray it to her sister ; but, now that the betrayal had taken 
place, it was almost a pleasure to her to anticipate the unburdening 
of her heart. All that she desired for the moment was that he would 
go away, that she might be free to speak. The words seemed burst- 
ing from her lips even while he was still there. Perhaps Torrance 
himself had a perception of this ; but then he did not believe that his 
wife had not a hundred times made her complaint to Edith before. 
And thus there ensued a pause which was not a pleasant one. Nei- 
ther the husband nor the wife spoke, and Edith’s agitated discourses 
with the children were the only sounds audible. They were not 
prattling, happy children, capable of making a diversion in such cir- 
cumstances ; and Edith was not so fond of the nephew and niece, 
who so distinctly belonged to their father, as she ought to have been. 
The situation was relieved by a summons to Torrance to see some 
one below. He went away reluctantly, jealously, darting a threat- 
ening look at his wife as he looked back. Edith was as much 
alarmed for what was coming as Torrancew^as. She redoubled her 
attentions to the children, hoping to avert the disclosure which she, 
too, saw was so near. 

It is their time to— go back to the nursery,” said Carry, with a 
voice full of passion, ringing the bell; and the children were scarcely 
out of hearing when the storm burst forth : have borne a great 

deal, oh, a great deal — more, far more, than you can ever know ; 
but think, think what he intended for me ! To invite John Erskine 
here, thinking he was — some one else ; to bring us into each other’s 
company day after day ; to tempt me to the old conversations, the 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 85 

old walks — don’t contradict me — he said so — that I might feel my 
misery, and drink my cup to the last dregs.” 

“ Carry, Carry ! you must be mistaking him ; he could not wish 
that ; it would be an insult — it would be impossible.” 

‘‘ That is why it pleases him,” cried the poor wife ; ‘‘he likes to 
watch and make sure that I suffer. If I did not suffer it would do 
him no good. He says I am too proud and too cold to — go wrong, 
Edith ! That is how he speaks to your sister ; and he wishes to show 
me — to show me, as if I did not know — what I have and what I have 
lost ! ” 

“ Carry, you must not — oh, don’t let us even think of what is past 
now ! ” 

“ It is easy for you to say so. I have tried — oh, how I have tried ! 
— never to think of the past — even now, even to-day. Think, only 
think ! Because he supposed that, he went expressly to see John 
Erskine, to ask him to come here, planning to torture me — no mat- 
ter to him, because he was sure I was too proud to go wrong. He 
wanted to watch the meeting — to see how we would look at each 
other, what we would say, how we would behave ourselves at such a 
moment. Can you believe it, Edith ? Was there ever anything in 
a book, in the theatre, so cruel, so terrible? Do you suppose one 
can help, after that, thinking of the past, thinking of the future too ? 
— for suppose it had been — Edward — Oh no, no I 1 don’t want to 
name his name ; but suppose it had been — he ? Another time it 
may be he. He may come to visit John Erskine. We may meet in 
the world ; and then I know — I know what is before me ! This man 
— oh, I cannot call him by any name ! — this man, whom I belong to, 
who can do what he pleases with my life — I know now what his pleas- 
ure will be — to torture me, Edie! — for no purpose but just to see me 
suffer — in a new way. He has seen me suffer already — oh, how 
much ! — and he is blase ! he wants something more piquant, a newer 
torture, a finer invention to get more satisfaction out of me. And 
you tell me I must not think of the past 1” 

“Carry, Carry!” cried Edith, trembling, “what can I say? 
You ought not to bear it. Come home; come back to us. Don’t 
stay with him, if this is how you feel about him, another day.” 

Carry shook her head. “ There is no going back,” she said ; 
“alas ! I know that now, if never before. To go back is impossi- 
ble : my father would not allow it ; my mother would not approve it. 
I dare not myself. No, no, that cannot be. However dreadful the 
path may be, all rocks or thorns, and however your feet may be 
torn and bleeding — forward, forward one must go. There is no 
escape. I have learned that.” 

There was a difference of about six years between them — not a 
very great period ; and yet what a difference it made ! Edith had 
in her youthful mind the certainty that there was a remedy for every 
evil, and that what was wrong should not be permitted to exist. 
Carry knew no remedy at all for her own condition, or, indeed, in 
the reflection of her own despair, for any other. Nothing was to be 
done that she knew of ; nothing could do any good. To go back 


86 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


was impossible. She sat leaning back in her chair, clasping her 
white, thin hands, looking into the vacant air — knowing of no aid, 
but only a little comfort in the mere act of telling her miseries — 
nothing more ; while Edith sat by her, trembling, glowing, im- 
patient, eager for something to be done. 

Does mamma know ? ” the girl asked, after a pause. 

Carry did not move from her position of quiet despair. Do 
you think,” she said, ‘Mt is possible that mamma, who has seen so 
much, should not know ? ” 

To this Edith could make no reply, knowing how often the sub- 
ject had been discussed between her mother and herself, with the 
certainty that Carry was unhappy, though without any special ex- 
planation to each other of the manner of her unhappiness. 

But if my father were to speak to him. Carry ? My father 
ought to do it ; it was he who made you — it was he who ” 

‘‘No one can say anything ; no one can do anything. I am sor- 
ry I told you, Edie ; but how could I help it ? And it does me a 
little good to speak. I must complain, or I should die.” 

“ Oh, my poor Car — my poor Car ! ” Edith cried, throwing her- 
self upon her knees beside her sister. Die ! she said, within her- 
self ; would it not be better — far better — to die ? It was living that 
seemed to her impossible. But this was another of the sad pieces 
of knowledge which Carry had acquired : that you cannot die when 
you please, as the young and untried are apt to suppose — that mor- 
tal anguish does not always kill. It was Edith who was agitated and 
excited, seeking eagerly for a remedy — any remedy — even that 
heroic and tragical one ; but Carry did not feel that even in that 
there was any refuge for her now. 

This was by no means John Erskine’s fault. He was as innocent 
of it, as unconscious of it, as any man could be ; but Edith, an im- 
patient girl, felt a sort of visionary rage against him, in which there 
was a certain attraction too. It seemed to her as if she must go and 
tell him of this sad family secret, though he had so little to do with 
it. For was not he involved, and his coming the occasion of it ? If 
she could but have accused him, confided in him, it would have 
given her mind a certain relief, though she could not tell why. 


CHAPTER X. 

After the strange scene in which she had been made a party to 
her sister’s wretchedness, it was inevitable that Edith should return 
to Lindores so completely occupied with this subject that she could 
think of nothing else. It was some time before she could get her 
mother’s ear undisturbed ; but as soon as they were alone, after 
various interruptions which the girl could scarcely bear, she poured 
forth her lamentable story with all the eloquence of passion and 
tears. Edith’s whole soul was bent upon some remedy. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


87 


How can there be any doubt on the subject ? She must come 
home — she must go away from him. Mother, it is sacrilege, it is 
profanation ! It is — I don’t know any word bad enough. She must 
come away ” 

Lady Lindores shook her head. ‘‘ It is one of the most terrible 
things in the world ; but now that it is done she must stand to it. 

We can do nothing, Edith ” 

I cannot believe that,” cried the girl. What! live with a 
man like that — live with him like that — always together, sharing 
everything — and hate him ? Mother, it is worse wickedness than 
— than the wicked ! It is a shame to one’s very nature. And to 
think it should be Carry who has to do it ! But no one ought to 
be compelled to do it. It ought not to be. I will speak to papa 
myself if no one else will — it ought not to be ” 

Again Lady Lindores shook her head. In this world — in this 
dreadful world,” she said, we cannot think only of what is right and 
wrong — alas ! there are other things to be taken into consideration. 
I think till I came home I was almost as innocent as you, Edith. 
Your father and I were very much blamed when we married. My 
people said to me, and still more his people said to him, that we 
should repent it all our lives ; but that once having done it, we should 
have to put up with it. Well, you know what it used to be. I sup- 
pose I should be ashamed to say that I found it very easy to put up 

with. It was a strange sort of wandering life ” 

Oh, how much happier than now 1 ” cried Edith. Oh, poor 
little Rintoul ! poor uncle ! if they had but lived and flourished, how 
much better for us all I ” 

I would not say that,” said Lady Lindores. I think now that 
when we were all so happy your father felt it. He did not say any- 
thing, but I’m sure he felt it. See how different he is now ! Now 
he feels himself in his right place. He has room for all his talents. 
Edith, do not put on that look, my dear child.” 

Edith’s face was soft and young ; but as her mother spoke it har- 
dened into an expression which changed its character entirely. Her 
upper lip closed down tight upon the other ; her eyes widened and 
grew stern. Not her father himself, not the old ancestors on the 
panels, looked more stern than this girl of twenty. She did not say 
anything, but the change in her face was answer enough. 

‘‘ Edith, you must not form such strong opinions ; you must not 
make yourself the judge ” 

“ Then I must not be a human creature, mamma ; and that I 
am, grown up, and obliged to think for myself. Sometimes I wish I 
did not. If I could only believe that all that \yas done was well, as 
some people do ! Here all is wrong — all is wrong 1 It ought not to 
have been at all, this marriage — and now — it ought not to continue 
to be ” 

“ My darling ! ” said Lady Lindores, appealing to her child with 
piteous eyes, I am to blame too. I ought to have resisted more 
strongly ; but it is hard, hard — to set one’s self against one’s hus- 


88 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


band, whom one has respected, always respected, and who has 
seemed to know best.” 

Edith’s face did not relax. Let ns not talk of that,” she said. 

It makes one’s heart sick. I think every one was wrong. Neither 
should you have done it, mamma — forgive me ! nor should Carry 
have done it. She ought never, never to have consented. I could 
not believe till the last moment that it was possible. Some one 
should have stopped it. I hoped so till the last moment ; but when 
once it was done, as you say, one thought at least that he loved her. 
Why did he want to marry her if he did not love her ? But he can’t 
love her, since he behaves so. No love at all, either on one side or 
the other ; and yet the two bound together for their lives. Was 
there ever anything so horrible ? It ought not to be ! — it ought not 
to be ! ” 

Lady Lindores took her daughter in her arms to soothe her ; but 
Edith, drying the hot tears from her eyes, was almost impatient of 
her mother’s caresses. What were caresses ? Well enough, sweet 
in their way, but setting nothing right that was wrong. Yes, it 
was true the mother should not have permitted it, any more than 
the daughter should have done it. Two human creatures, grown up 
(as Edith repeated to herself), able to judge — they ought not to have 
allowed themselves to be swept away by the will of another. This 
was how the resolute girl put it. Her father she gave up — she would 
not judge him, therefore she preferred not to think of him at all. 
He had done it determinedly, and of distinct purpose ; but the others 
who submitted, who allowed themselves to be forced into ill-doing, 
were they less to blame ? All this she had gone over at the time of 
Carry’s marriage, and had suppressed and forced it away from her. 
But now the current turned again. She withdrew herself from her 
mother’s arms. Here was the most hideous thing in the world exist- 
ing in their sight, her sister at once the victim and the chief actor in 
it, and all that could be given her in her eager attempt to set things 
right was a kiss ! It seemed to Edith that the shame on her cheeks, 
the fire in her eyes, dried up her tears. She turned away from Lady 
Lindores. If she should be doomed too, by her father’s will, w^ould 
her mother have no better help to give her than a kiss ? But when 
this idea passed through the girl’s mind she tossed back her head with 
an involuntary defiance. Never should such a doom come upon her. 
Heaven and earth could not move her so far. Obedience ! This 
was such obedience as no one of God’s creatures had any right to 
render to another — neither wife to husband, nor to her parents any 
child. 

After this there was a long pause in the conversation between 
the mother and daughter. Lady Lindores divined Edith’s thoughts. 
She understood every shade of the repugnance, disgust, disapproval, 
that the young, upright spirit, untouched as yet by the bonds and 
complications of life, w^as passing through. And she shrunk a little 
from Edith’s verdict, which she acknowledged to be true. But what 
could she have done ? she asked herself. Who would have approved 
her had she opposed her husband’s wishes, encouraged her daugh- 


THE LADIES LIN DO RES. 


89, 


ter to keep to a foolish engagement made under circumstances so 
totally different, and to refuse a match so advantageous ? She had 
done everything she could ; she had remonstrated, she had protest- 
ed ; but when Carry herself gave in, what could her mother, in the 
face of the universal disapproval of the world, at the risk of an abso- 
lute breach with her husband, do ? But none of these things did 
Edith take into account — Edith, young and absolute, scorning com- 
promises, determined only that what was right should be done, and 
nothing else. Lady Lindores withdrew too, feeling her caress re- 
jected, understanding even what Edith was saying in her heart. 
What was a kiss when things so much more important were in ques- 
tion? It was perfectly true. She felt the justice of it to the bottom 
of her heart, and yet was chilled and wounded by the tacit condem- 
nation of her child. She went to her work, which was always a resource 
at such a moment, and there was a silence during which each had 
time to regain a little composure. By-and-by, when the crisis 
seemed to have passed, Lady Lindores spoke. 

‘‘ We must have young Erskine here,” she said, almost timidly. 

Your father has asked him ; and in the circumstances, as we saw 
so much of him before, it is quite necessary. I think, as this un- 
pleasant suggestion has been made — now, Edith, do not be unreas- 
onable ; we must do what we can in this world, not what we would 
— as this has taken place, I will ask Carry and her husband to meet 

him. It will show Mr. Torrance at least ” 

‘^Mother!” Edith burst out — ‘‘mother! I tell you of a thing 
which is wickedness, which is a horror to think of, and you speak of 
asking people to dinner 1 Do you mean to turn it all into ridicule? 
— oh, not me, that would not matter — but all purity, all fitness ? To 
ask them to— meet him ” 

“ My dear, my dear!” cried Lady Lindores, half weeping, half 
angry, appealing and impatient at once. She did not know what to 
say to this impracticable young judge. “ We cannot resort to heroic 
measures,” she cried. “ It is impossible. We cannot take her 
away from him, any more than we can make of him a reasonable 
man. Carry herself would be the first to say no — for the children’s 
sake, for the sake of her own credit. All we can do is to make the 
best of what exists. Mr. Torrance must be shown quietly how mis- 
taken he is — how much he is in the wrong.” 

“ Mr. Torrance ! I would show him nothing, except how much I 
scorn him ! ” Edith cried. “ A man who dares to torture my sister — 
a man who is not worthy to take her name into his lips, with his inso- 
lent doubts and his ‘ Lady Car,’ which I cannot endure to hear ! ” 

“ But who is her husband, alas ! I cannot bear to hear it either ; 
but what can we do ? We can take no notice of his insolent doubts; 

but we must prove, all the same, to all the world ” 

“ Mother ! But if it did so happen — who can tell ? — that it had 
been — poor Edward ?” 

“ Hush ! ” cried her mother, almost fiercely ; and then she added, 
‘ God forbid, Edith — God forbid !” 

But who could have divined that such preliminaries were neces- 


90 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


sary to procure the assembling of the little party which met a few 
evenings later at Lindores, just on the eve of the departure of the 
family to London for their short enjoyment of the season ? John 
Erskine had been told that it would be merely a family party — his 
old friends, as Lady Lindores, with kind familiarity and a smile so 
genial and so charming that the young man must have been a wizard 
had he seen anything beneath it, assured him. It never occurred to 
him to think of anything beneath. The earl had been as cordial, as 
friendly, as could be desired ; and though it gave him a disagreeable 
sensation to meet, when he entered the room, the stare of Torrance, 
whose big light eyes seemed to project out of his face to watch the 
entrance of the stranger, yet he speedily forgot this in the pleasure 
with which he found himself greeted by the others. Carry walked 
across the room with a gentle dignity, which yet was very unlike the 
shy brightness of her old girlish aspect, and held out to him a thin 
hand. I think you scarcely remember me,’' she said, with a soft, 
pathetic smile. She was not, as many women would have been, 
confused by the recollection that her husband was there Jealously 
watching her looks and her tones : this consciousness, instead of agi- 
tating her, gave her a kind of inspiration. In other circumstances 
the very sight of one who had been a witness of her brief romance 
might have disturbed her, but she was steeled against all tremors 
now. 

John could scarcely make her any reply. The change in her 
was so great that he was struck dumb. Her girlish freshness was 
gone, her animation subdued, the intellectual eagerness quenched in 
her eyes. A veil of suffering and patience seemed to fall about her, 
through which she appeared as at a distance, in another sphere. 

Indeed,” he said, hesitating, ‘‘ I should scarcely have known you,” 
and murmured something about his pleasure in seeing her — at which 
she smiled again sadly, saying nothing more. This was all their 
greeting. Edith stood by, with an unusually high color, and a 
tremor of agitation in her frame, which he perceived vaguely with 
surprise, not knowing what it could mean ; and then the little inci- 
dent was over, half of the company seeing nothing whatever in it 
but a mere casual encounter of old acquaintances. Besides the 
family, there were present the girl whom John Erskine began within 
himself to call “ that everlasting Miss Barrington,” and the minister 
of the parish, a man carefully dressed in the costume adopted dur- 
ing the last generation by the Anglican priesthood, who was one of 
the new school,” and had the distinction of having made himself 
very alarming to his presbytery as, if not a heretic, yet at least a 
thinker,” given to preaching about honest doubt, and trifling with 
German philosophy. These two strangers scarcely afforded enough 
of variety to change the character of the family party. Torrance 
devoted himself to his dinner, and for some time spoke but little. 
Lady Caroline occupied herself with Dr. Meldrum with something of 
her old eagerness. It was evident that he w'as her resource, and 
that vague views upon the most serious subjects, which everybody 
else thought high-flown, found some sympathy in this professional 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


9 * 


thinker, who was nothing if not heretical. As for John, he was 
wholly occupied by Lady Lindores, who talked to him with a fluency 
which was almost feverish. 

“ We shall find you here when we come back,” she said, with 
all your arrangements made ? And I hope Rintoul will return with 
us. Certainly he will be here in August, and very thankful to find 
a neighbor like you, Mr. Erskine, with whom he will have so much 
in common.” 

That’s a compliment to the rest of us,” said Torrance, who 
sat on the other side. Rintoul, I suppose, doesn’t find much 
in common with us ignorant clowns in the county ” — this he said 
without looking at any one, with his head bent over his plate. 

‘‘ I did not say so. Rintoul is not so much with us as I could 
wish — he has his duty to attend to. To be sure, they get a great 
deal of leave ; but you young men have so many places to go to 
nowadays. You spend so very little time at home. I wonder if it 
is a good thing or the reverse ? ” said Lady Lindores, with a little 
sigh. A mother may be pardoned for not admiring the new way, 
when our sons come home, not for us, but for the shooting.” 

‘‘ I think I am scarcely able to judge,” said John. “ Home per- 
haps was a little different to me : my mother has so many claiming 
a share in her. And now my home is here in Dalrulzian, which is 
merely a house, not a home at all,” he said, with something between 
a laugh and a sigh. 

‘‘You must marry,” said Lady Lindores; “that is what the 
county expects of you. You will disappoint all your neighbors ii 
you do not accomplish this duty within a year. The question is 
whether the lady is already found, or whether we are to have the grat 
ification of seeing you go through all the preliminaries, which is a 
great amusement, Mr. Erskine ; so I hope you have your choice still 
to make.” 

It was accident, of course, which directed her eyes to Nora, who 
sat by Torrance — accident only ; for a kind woman, who was herself 
a mother, would not have willing done anything to light up the sud- 
den color which flamed over the girl’s face. Nora felt as if she 
could have sunk into the earth. As for John, it seemed almost an 
insult to her that he should look at her coldly across the table with 
studious unconsciousness. 

“ I am afraid I cannot undertake to furnish amusement for the 
county,” he said, “ in that way — and Dalrulzian is not big enough 
for two people. I had no idea it was so small. It is a bachelor’s 
box, a lodge, a sort of chambers in the country, where one can put 
up a friend, but nothing more.” 

Here Nora found a way out of her embarrassment. “ Indeed,” 
she cried, “ you wrong Dalrulzian, Mr. Erskine. We found it suffi- 
cient for our whole family, and the most delightful place to live in. 
You are not worthy of Dalruzian if you talk of it so.” 

“ I think Erskine is quite right,” said Torrance, between two 
mouthfuls ; “ it’s a small, little bit of a place.” 

“So is Lindores,” the countess said, eagerly ; “ there are quan- 


92 


THE LADIES LTNDOEES, 


titles of small rooms, but no sort of grandeur of space. We must 
go to Tinto for that. You have not yet seen Tinto, Mr. Erskine ? 
We must not be jealous, for our old nests are more natural. If we 
were all rich enough to build sets of new rooms like a little Louvre, 
there would be none of the old architecture left.” 

You are speaking about architecture, Lady Lindores,” said Dr. 
Meldrum. He had just returned from his first expedition abroad,” 
and he was very willing to enlighten the company with his new ex- 
periences. Besides, just then Lady Caroline was pressing him very 
hard upon a point which he did not wish as yet to commit himself 
upon. Stone and lime are safer questions than evolution and de- 
velopment,” he said, turning to her, in an undertone. 

“ Safer, perhaps, but not so interesting. They are ended and 
settled — arrange them in what form you please, and they stand 
there forev#r,” said Lady Caroline, with brightening eyes ; ‘‘ but 
not so the mind: not so a single thought, however slight it may be. 
There is all the difference between life and death.” 

‘‘ My dear Lady Caroline ! you will not call the stones of Venice 
dead — or St. Peter’s, soaring away into the skies ? Though they 
are but collections of stones, they are as living as we are.” 

I begin to recognize her again,” said John, innocent of all rea- 
son why* he should not fix his attention upon poor Carry, as her pale 
face lighted up. He felt too pitiful, too tender of her, to speak of 
her formally by her new title. ‘‘ She used to look like that in the 
old days.” 

‘‘Yes,” said Lady Lindores, with a sigh, “Poor Carry! vision- 
ary subjects always pleased heR best.” 

Torrance had raised his head from his plate, and was lending an 
eager ear. “Its confoundedly out of place all that for a woman,” 
he said. “ What has she to do with politics, and philosophy, and 
nonsense ? She has plenty to think of in her children and her 
house.” 

Lady Lindores made him a little bow, but took no farther notice. 
She was exasperated, and scarcely under her own control ; but 
Nora, on the other side, was glad to have the chance of breaking 
her lance on some one. If Pat Torrance was not worth her steel, 
there was at least another opposite whose opinions she had no clew 
to, whom she would have liked to transfix, if that had been possible. 
“ It does us poor girls good to have the benefit of a gentleman’s 
real opinion,” she said. “ Would you like Lady Caroline to make 
your puddings ? It is so good to know what is expected of us — in 
all ranks.” 

“ Why not ?” said Torrance, over his plate. “A woman’s busi- 
ness is to look after her house — that was always considered the right 
thing. I hope you are not one of the strong-minded ones, Miss 
Barrington. You had much better not. No man ever looks at 
them.” 

“And what a penalty that would be!” cried Nora, with sol- 
emnity. 

“ You wouldn’t like it, that I’ll promise you. I tell you they are 


THE LADIES L/NDORES. 


93 


all the ugly ones. I once saw a lot of them, one uglier than the 
other — women that knew no man would ever look at them. They 
were friends of Lady Car’s, you may be sure, all chattering, twenty 
to the dozen. They want to get into Parliament — that is at the 
bottom of it all; and then they would make a pretty mess — for us to 
set right.” 

‘‘ But, Mr. Torrance, you could not set it right, for you are not 
in Parliament anymore than I am,” said Nora, pointedly. He gave 
her a look out of his big eyes which might have killed her had looks 
such power. The earl had complained that his son-in-law was not 
amenable in this matter. But nobody knew that it was a very sore 
point with the wealthy squire, whom no one had so much as thought 
of for such a dignity. Much poorer, less important persons than 
himself had been suggested, had even sat for the county. But 
Torrance of Tinto, conscious that he was the only man ^ong them 
who could afford to throw away a few thousands without wincing — 
of him nobody had thought. He had declaimed loudly on many 
occasions that nothing would induce him to take the trouble ; but 
this slight had rankled at his heart. 

Mr. Torrance would not like London life,” Lady Lindores said, 
coming to his aid ; ‘‘ turning night into day is hard upon those who 
are accustomed to a more natural existence.” 

You speak as if I had never been out of the country,” said her 
ungracious son-in-law. I know that’s the idea entertained of me 
in this house ; but it’s a mistake. I’ve seen life just as much as 
those who make more fuss about it.” 

‘^And you, Mr. Erskine, have you seen life ?” said Lady Lin- 
dores, turning to him with a smile. 

‘‘ Very little,” said John — “ in London, at least.” 

It’s a wonderful idea to me, though most people seem to hold 
it,” said Dr. Meldrum, coming in, in a pause of that conversation 
with Lady Caroline, which sometimes alarmed him by its abstract- 
ness and elevation, “that life is only to be seen in London, or in 
Paris, or some of those big centres. Under correction. Lady Lin- 
dores, and not to put my small experience above the more in- 
structed ” 

“ That is an alarming beginning,” cried Edith. “Dr. Meldrum 
means to show us how ignorant we all are.” 

“ That’s what I never can show any one in this house,” said the 
minister, with old-fashioned politeness ; “ but my opinion is, that 
life in a great metropolis is the most conventional — ay, you’ll ac- 
knowledge that — the most contracted, the most narrow, the most — 
Well, well, if you’ll not let a man speak ” 

The hubbub of contradiction and amusement made the party 
more genial, more at ease, than it had yet been. 

“ If you make that out, doctor, you will give us something new to 
think of,” the earl said. 

And poor Lady Caroline, who found in the good minister her 
chief intellectual resource, prepared to listen to his argument with 


94 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


all the attention of a hearer who believes fully in the abilities of her 
guide. ‘‘ I think I can see what Dr. Meldrum means,” she said. 

I am sure you will see what I mean,” the doctor said, gratefully. 

In the first place, it’s far too big to make society general — you’ll al- 
low that ? Well, then, the result is that society, being so vast, 
breaks itself up into little coteries. It’s like a number of bits of 
villages just touching each other, like a long thread of them, every 
one with its own little atmosphere. That’s just London to me. You 
meet the same people as if you were in a village ; then go out of 
that clique to another, and you meet the same people again, but 
another set. There was one day,” said the minister, with a certain 
pride, that I was very dissipated. I went out to my lunch, and 
then to a party in the afternoon, and then to my dinner, and to two 
places at night. It was a great experience. Well, if you’ll believe 
me, I was wearied with seeing the^same faces, in a great society 
like London, the chief place in the world. There was scarcely one 
I did not meet three times in the course of that day. In the country 
here you could not do more. There’s as much variety as that in 
Dunearn itself.” 

I see what Dr. Meldrum means,” said Carry. ‘‘ No doubt it 
was a special society into which he had been introduced, and people 
were asked to meet him because they were distinguished — because 
they were people whom it was a pleasure to meet.” 

That’s a great compliment to me, but I cannot take it to my- 
self. They were, many of them, persons that it was no pleasure to 
meet. Some with titles, and, as far as I could see, little more. 
Some that were perhaps rich — I hope so, at least, for they were 
nothing else.” 

^^This is cynicism,” said Lord Lindores ; ^^and I, who have 
lived in the opinion that Dr. Meldrum was the most benignant, the 
most tolerant of men ” • 

One can understand entirely,” repeated Lady Caroline, stand- 
ing by her friend, ‘Svhat he means. I have thought so myself. 
The same faces, the same ideas, even the same words that mean so 
little ” 

I didn’t know you were so well up in London society, Lady 
Car,” said her liusband, who had been trying for some time to strike 
into the inUee^ and whose lanee was specially aimed at her of all 
the talkers. And then there was a general flutter of talk, instinctive, 
all round the table ; for when a man stretches across to say some- 
thing disagreeable to his wife everybody present is upon their honor 
to quench the nascent quarrel. The ladies left the table soon after ; 
and the conversation of the men did not afford the same risks, for 
after one or two contradictions, which the earl put aside with well- 
bred ease and a slight but unanswerable contempt, Torrance sunk 
into sulky silence, taking a great deal of wine. At such moments a 
little poetic justice and punishment of his sins toward his daughter 
was inflicted even upon Lord Lindores. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


95 


CHAPTER XI. 
you like him, Nora?’^ 

This is a question that means nothing in most cases, nor would 
It have meant anything now save for Nora’s special sense of having 
been presented to John Erskine in something like the light of a can- 
didate for his favor. 

I don’t think I like him at all,” she said, with some petulance. 

He looks at us all as if we were natives of an undiscovered coun- 
try. He is very cautious, not intending to make us proud by too 
much notice. Oh, it is different with you. You knew him before — 
you are not one of the barbarous people. As for me, I am jaun- 
diced, I am not a fair judge ; because he is determined, whatever 
happens, that not a single glass bead, not a cowrie or a bangle, or 
whatever you call them, will he give to me.” 

That is not what he means, Nora. He is a little bewildered. 
Fancy coming into an entirely new place, which you know nothing 
about, and realizing all at once that you belong to it, and that here 
is your place in the world. That happened to us too. I sympathize 
with him. We felt just the same when we came to Lindores.” 

But you were not afraid of the natives, Edith. Young men, 
however,” said Nora, with an air of grave impartiality, ‘‘are to be 
pitied in that way ; they think themselves so dreadfully important. 
If they speak to a girl, they suppose immediately that they may be 
putting false hopes into her head and making her think — and then 
that frightens them. Well, it is natural it should frighten them. 
Suppose that Mr. Erskine, by merely speaking civilly to me, should 
run the risk of breaking my heart, is not that something to be afraid 
of? for he is quite nice^ I am sure, and would not, if he could help 
it, break any girl’s heart.” 

“ You .are talking nonsense, Nora. How did you get so much 
acquainted with the conceits of young men ? ” 

“ I see them through the boys. Jamie and Ned are like a pair 
of opera glasses : you can see through them what that kind of crea- 
ture thinks.” 

“ I am sure,” said Edith, with some heat, “ Rintoul is not like 
that.” 

“ Oh, I was not thinking of Lord Rintoul,” cried Nora, precipi- 
tately. She blushed, and Edith observed it, making her own con- 
clusions. And thereupon she on her side had something to say. 

“ Rintoul, when he was only Robin, was a delightful brother. 
He never was clever — even I was cleverer than he was ; and Carry, 
of course, was always ever so far above us both. But now that he is 
Rintoul he is a little changed. One is fond of him, of course, all the 
same. But it is different ; he has ideas — of money, of getting on in 


96 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


the world, of people making good marriages, and that sort of thing. 
I think we have had enough of that in our family,” Edith added, with 
a sigh ; but Rintoul has got corrupted. To be heir to anything 
seems to corrupt people somehow. It is not so very much ; but he 
has got ideas — of what his rank demands — that sort of thing. Be- 
cause there is a title he must marry for money. Well, perhaps not 
quite so broad as that ; but he must not marry where there is no 
money. I cannot put up with it,” Edith cried. 

And it was true that she could not put up with it. Yet there was 
a certain intention, too, even in this little outburst. One girl cannot 
chatter with another without meanings, without secret intimations 
of dangers in the way. Nora’s countenance clouded over, the blush 
•on her cheek grew deeper ; but she laughed, putting a little force on 
herself. 

Is not that quite right ? I have always been taught so. Not to 
marry for money. That is putting it a great deal too broadly, as 
you say — but only, when you are going to marry, that it should not 
be a penniless person. It is so much better for both parties, mam- 
ma always says.” 

I wonder if you mean to conform to the rule ? ” her friend asked, 
with an impulse half of mockery, half of curiosity. 

I don’t mean to conform to any rule,” said Nora. One has 
to wait, you know, when one is a girl, till somebody is kind enough 
to fall in love with one ; and then you are allowed to say whether 
you will have him or no. Don’t you remember what Beatrice says ? 
— ‘It is my cousin’s duty to make courtesy and say, “ Father, as it 
please you,” ‘ only with that little reservation, ‘ Let him be a hand- 
some fellow, or else make another courtesy — ’ ” . ’ 

“It is worse than that,” said Edith, very gravely. “You say 
some things are hard upon young men ; but oh, how much, much 
harder upon girls ! It is in town that one feels that. There was 
something, after all, to be said for Carry marrying in the coun- 
try, without going' through the inspection of all these men. If I 
speak to any one or dance with any one who would be a good match, 
they will say immediately that mamma has got her eye upon him— 

{ 'that she is trying to cat6h him for me — that she means to make up 
■■ a marriage. My mother!” cried Edith, with an inference in the 
very emphasis with which she uttered the word ; “as if she were 
not more romantic than I ^m a hundred times, and more intolerant 
of scheming! The fatal thing is,” added the girl, with her serious 
face, “ that, if a crisis should come, mamma would give in. Against 
her conscience she will try to hnd reasons for doing what my father 
wishes, whether it is right or w^ng.” . . 

“ But isn’t it a woman’s duty to do what her husband wishes ?” 
said Nora. “ I have always heard that, too, at home.” 

These two young women belonged to their period. They con- 
sidered the subject gravely, willing to be quite impartial; but neither 
she who suggested that conjugal obedience was a duty, nor she 
who objected to it in her mother’s case, felt the question to be in the 
least beyond discussion. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


97 


It is in the Bible,” said Edith — ‘‘ one cannot deny that; still, 
there must be distinctions. A woman who is grown up, and a rea- 
sonable creature, cannot obey like a slave. It is still more distinct 
that a child should obey its parents ; but at my age it is not possible 
I could just do everything I am told, like a little girl. If papa were 
to order me to do as poor Carry did, I should not think twice ; I 
should refuse, plainly. If it is wrong, I cannot help it ; it could not 
be so wrong as to obey. I would not do it — nothing in the world,” 
cried the girl, in her ardor striking her hands together, ‘‘would 
make me do it ; and with far more reason a mother should — judge 
for herself. You will never convince me otherwise,” Edith said, 
holding her head high. 

Norah pondered, but made no reply. She had never arrived at 
any great domestic question on which . the rules of her life had been 
out of accord with her happiness. She had never thought of or- 
ders from one or the other of her parents, insisted upon against her 
will. They had never compelled her to do anything, so far as she 
could remember. And, indeed, cruel parents are little known to 
the children of the present, day. She would not have believed in 
them but for this great and evident instance of Carry Lindores. 
The earl was no tyrant either. He had never been known in the 
character until that temptation came in his way. Had he forced 
his daughter to a compliance ? Nobody could say so. He had not 
locked her in her room, or kept her on bread-and-water, or dragged 
her to the altar, according to old formulas. He had insisted, and 
she had not been strong enough to stand out. Was it not her fault 
rather than his? Open as a nineteenth-century mind is bound, to 
be to all sides of the question, Nora was not sure that there was not 
something to be said for the father too— which was a great instance 
of candor in a representative of youth. 

“ I do not understand being forced to do anything,” she said, 
contemplatively. “ How is it when you are forced f One might 
yield of one’s own will. If I was asked to do anything — I think any- 
thing — for the sake of my father and mother, I should do it, what- 
ever it was.” 

“ Almost anything,” Edith said, correcting her friend ; “ but not 
that^ for instance — certainly not that.” 

“ I don’t know what you mean by that^" said Nora, petulantly ; 
though, indeed, this was not exactly true. Both speaker and lis- 
tener knew that it was not exactly true, and no explanation followed. 
The girls had been wandering in the woods which covered the slop- 
ing bank on the summit of which the castle stood. Its turrets, were 
visible far above them, among the green of the early foliage. The 
trees were still thinly but brightly clad, the leaves not wholly un- 
closed, the beeches just loosening their spring finery out of its brown 
sheath. The river was still some way below. They were seated full 
in the afternoon sunshine, which was not warm enough to incom- 
mode them, upon a knoll covered half with grass, half with moss, 
through which penetrated here and there the brownness of the 
twisted roots, and of bits of rock and bowlder. All about in the 

5 


98 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


hollows, under every projection, at the root of every tree, nestling 
in the crevices of the brown banks, and on the edges of the rocks, 
were clumps of primroses, like scatterings of palest gold. The river 
made a continuous murmur in the air ; the birds were busy overhead 
in all their sweet afternoon chatter, flitting about from branch to 
branch, paying their visits, trying over their notes. It was only 
through a checkered screen of leaves that the sky was visible at all, 
save in this little opening, where all was light and brightness, the 
centre of the picture, with these two young figures lending it interest. 

They were not either of them beauties to make a sensation in a 
London season, but they were both fair enough to please any simple 
eye — two fair and perfect human creatures in their bloom, the very 
quintessence of the race, well-bred, well-mannered, well-educated, 
well-looking, knowing a little and thinking a little, and perhaps, ac- 
cording to the fashion of the time, believing that they knew less and 
thought more than was at all the case. Both Edith and Nora de- 
spised themselves somewhat for knowing no Latin, much less any 
Greek. They thought the little accomplishments they possessed 
entirely trivial, and believed that their education had been shame- 
fully neglected — which was an unnecessary reproach to their pa- 
rents, who had done the best they could for the girls, and had trans- 
mitted to them at least an open and bright intelligence, which is 
more pleasant than learning. 

On the other hand, these young things believed that they had in- 
spirations unknown to their seniors, and had worked out unaided 
many problems unsolved by their fathers and mothers — which, per- 
haps, was also a mistaken view. They liked to raise little questions 
of delicate morality, and to feel that there were more things in heaven 
and earth than had been thought of in any previous philosophy. 
They were a little alike even in appearance ; the one a little fairer 
than the other — not any piquant contrast of blue eyes with brown, 
after the usual fashion of artistic grouping. They might even have 
been mistaken for sisters, as they sometimes were — a mistake which 
pleased them in their enthusiasm for each other. 

Both these girls had been affected more or less by the intellectual 
tastes of poor Lady Caroline, whom they devoutly believed to be a 
genius, though wanting (as persons of genius are supposed generally 
to be) in some ordinary qualities which would have been good for 
her. Their speculations, their loves and likings, especially in the 
matter of books, were more or less moulded by her ; and they copied 
out her verses, and thought them poetry. Perhaps in this respect 
Nora, who was the more intellectual, was at the same time the less 
independent of the two. Edith was in all things the representative 
of the positive, as they were all fond of saying — the realist, the prac- 
tical person. Such was the pretty argot of this thoughtful circle. 
But on the whole, as they sat there together musing and talking as 
became their visionary age, the eye could not have lighted upon, 
nor the heart been satisfied with, any spectacle more pleasant than 
that of these two slim and simple girls exchanging their thoughts in 
the temperate spring sunshine, among the spring buds and flowers. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


99 


A little silence had fallen upon them ; they were sitting idly to- 
gether, each following out her own thoughts — thoughts which bore 
somehow (who could doubt ?) upon the opening life before them, and 
were more than mere thinkings, dreams, and anticipations all in 
one — when suddenly there drifted across their path a very simple, 
very ordinary embodiment of fate, yet distinctly such, a young man, 
in fishingcostume, with his basket over his shoulder, coming toward 
them by the winding path from the river. The sound of his step in the 
silence of the woods — which were not silent at all, yet thrilled to the 
first human sound as if all the rest of creation were not worth reck- 
oning — caught their attention at once. They saw him before he was 
aware of their presence, and recognized him with a slight sensation. 
It is to be doubted whether the sudden apparition of a pretty girl flit- 
ting across the vision of two young men would not have produced a 
greater emotion for the moment, but it would have been of a different 
kind. 

Both Nora and Edith recognized in the approach of the new- 
comer the coming in of a new influence — a something which, for 
aught they knew, might be of far more importance in their lives 
than all the echoes of the woods or influences of the fresh spring 
skies. The character of the scene changed at once with his appear- 
ance. Its tranquillity lessened ; it became dramatic, opening up an 
opportunity for all the complications of life. Nora was the one 
whom these romantic possibilities affected the most, for she was the 
most imaginative, seeing a story in everything. Since that morning 
at Miss Barbara’s house in Dunearn she had withdrawn from the con- 
templation of John Erskine as in any way capable of affecting her- 
self. For a moment she had been offended and vexed with fate ; but 
that feeling had passed away, and Nora now looked upon him with 
a philosophical eye with a reference to Edith, not to herself. 

From all she had ever seen or heard it did not appear likely to 
Nora that two girls and a young man could go on meeting familiarly, 
constantly, as it was inevitable they should do, without something 
more coming of it than is written in the trivial records of every day. 
Perhaps young men, being more immediately active agents of their 
own fate, are less likely to think of the dramatic importance of any 
chance meeting. John did not think about the future at all, nor 
had he made any calculation as to what was likely to result from^ 
continual meetings. He was pleased, yet half annoyed at the same 
time, his heart giving a jump when he recognized Edith, but falling 
again when he saw ‘^that eternal Miss Barrington” beside her. 
^‘Am I never to see her by herself?” he muttered, half angrily. 
But next moment he came forward, quickening his pace ; and after a 
little hesitation, to see whether it was permissible, he threw himself 
at their feet, making the pretty picture perfect. 

Have you caught any fish, Mr. Erskine ? But isn’t it too 
bright ? ” 

“ I have not been trying to catch any fish. These things, ” said 
John, laying down his rod and loosening his basket from his shoul- 
der, are tributes paid to the genius of the place. I don’t want to 


lOO 


THE LADIES LTNDORES, 


kill the trout. I dare say they are of more use, and I am sure they 
have more right to be where they are, than 1. 

‘‘Who can have a better right than you ? ^’ said Nora, always 
moved by the idea of the home from which she had felt herself ous- 
ted to make room for this languid proprietor. “You are the real 
owner of the place. ” 

“ I am a lish out of water — as yet,” said the young man. He 
added the last words in deference to the eager remonstrances and 
reproaches which were evidently rushing to their lips. 

“ You had better come with us to town. Would you be in your 
element there ? Men seem to like that do-nothing life. It is "only 
we girls that are rising up against it. We want something to do.” 

“And so do I,” said John, ruefully. “Tell me something. 
Nobody that I can see wants me here. Old Rolls, perhaps ; but 
his approval is not enough to live for-^is it ? He would make out a 
code for me with very little trouble. But imagine a poor fellow 
stranded in a fresh country— altogether new to me. Miss Barring- 
ton, notwithstanding my forefathers — no shooting, no hunting, no- 
thing to do. You may laugh, but what is to become of me — espec- 
ially when you go away?” he said, turning to Edith, with a little 
heightening color. This acted sympathetically, and brought a still 
brighter flush to Edith’s face. Nora looked on in a gentle, pensive, 
grandmotherly sort of way, observing the young people with benig- 
nity, and saying to herself that she knew this was how it would be 
— because it is not so suitable, and Lord Lindores wll never con- 
sent, she added, with a private reflection aside upon the extreme 
perversity of human affairs. 

“No shooting, no hunting, no — Then you will be happy, Mr. 
Erskine, in September.” 

“ Happier. But I don’t want to wait so long. I should prefer to 
be happy now.” 

“ In the way of amusement, Mr. Erskine means, Edith. That is 
all boys — I beg your pardon ; I was thinking of my brothers — that is 
all gentlemen mean when they speak of something to do.” 

“Well — unless I had a trade, and could make shoes or chairs, or 
something. The people are all too well off, too well educated, to 
want me. They condescend to me as a foolish individual without in- y 
formation or experience. They tell me my family has always been 
on t/ie right side in politics, with a scornful consciousness that 1 don’t 
know very well what they mean by the right side. My humble pos- 
sessions are all in admirable order. There are not even any trees to 
cut down. What am I to do ? Visit the poor ? There are no 
poor ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Erskine ! ” cried both the girls in a breath. 

I poveri vergognosi^ yfAiO require to be known and delicately 
dealt with, perhaps — fit subjects for your delicate hands, not for 
mine.” 

“ If you begin talking of delicate hands, you defeat us altogether : 
the age of compliments is over,” said Edith, with some heat ; while 
Nora cast a furtive glance at the hands both of herself and her friend. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


lOl 


They were both sufficiently worthy of the name— ladies^ hands, which 
had known ho labor, neither in themselves nor their progenitors. 
Edith^s were the better shaped — if the tapering Northern fingers are 
to be considered better than the blunter Greek — but Nora’s the 
whiter of the two.' This reflection was quite irrelevant; yet how 
much of our thinkings Would be silenced if all that was irrelevant was 
1^ It out of account ? 

‘‘I meant no cotnpliment. Suppose that I were to go into the 
dearest village and offer charity — that would be my brutal way of 
proceeding. What would they do to me, do you think ? Pitch me 
into the river ! tar-and-feather me ! No ; if there is anything to be 
done in that way, it must be done with knowledge. It is in vain you 
mock me with reproaches for doing nothings— I am a man out of 
work.” 

So long as thdy do not ask for money,” said Nora, demurely, 
mamma says every man should be helped to get work. And then 
we ask, what is his trade ? ” 

Ah ! that is the question — if the wretch hasn’t got one ? ” 

It is very difficult in that case. Then /he must take to helping 
in the garden, or harvest-work, or — I don’t know — hanging on (but 
that is so very bad for them) about the house.” 

Clearly that is what I am most fit for. Do you remember how 
you used to engage me reading aloud ? They all made sketches ex- 
cept myself. Miss Barrington. Beaufort— do you recollect what cap- 
ital drawings he made ? And I read— there’s no- telling how many 
Tauchnitz volumes I got through ; and then the discussions upon 
them. I wonder if you recollect as well as I do ? ” said J ohn to Edith,, 
with a great deal of eager light in his eyes. 

Nora had a great mind to get up and walk away. She was not at 
all offended, nor did she feel left out, as might have happened. But 
she said to herself, calmly, that it was a pity to spoil sport, and that 
she was not wanted the least in the world. 

I remember very well ; but there are reasons,” said Edith, 
dropping her voice, and bending a little toward him, why we 
don’t talk of that much. Oh, it does not matter to me ; but mamma 
and Car — have a — feeling. Don’t say anything to them of those old 
times.” 

‘‘So long as I may talk of them now and then— to you,” said 
John, in the same undertone. He was delighted to have this little 
link of private recollections between them ; and the pleasure of it 
made his eyes and his countenance glow. At this Nora felt actually 
impelled to do what she had only thought of before. She rose and 
wandered off from them on pretence of gathering some primroses. 
“ How lovely they are ! and nobody sees them. Will you lend me 
your basket, Mr. Erskine, to carry some home ?” She took it up, 
with a smile, bidding them wait for her. She felt gently benignant, 
protecting, patronizing, like a quite old person. Why should not 
they have their day ? Edith, too, rose hastily, following her friend’s 
example, as if their easy repose was no longer practicable. She 
had a sense, half delightful, half alarming, of having suddenly got 


102 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


upon very confidential terms with John Erskine. She rose up, and 
so did he. But it would have been foolish to copy Nora’s whim, 
and gather primroses, or even to follow her, as if they were afraid 
of each other. So Edith stood still, and John by her side. 

“ I cannot forget that summer,” he said, in the same low tone, 
which was now totally unnecessary, there being nobody at hand to 
overhear. 

‘‘I remember it, too,” said Edith, softly, ‘‘almost better than 
any other. It was just before — anything happened: when we were 
so poor. I have my little gray frock still that I used to wear — that 
I went everywhere in. What expeditions we had — Car and I ! I 
dare say you thought us very wild, very untamed. That was what 
mamma always used to say.” 

“ I thought you — ” John began hurriedly, then stopped, with a 
little, unsteady laugh. “You might object if I put it into words. 
It was my first awakening,” he added a moment after, in a still 
lower tone. 

Edith gave him a curious, half-startled glance. She thought the 
word a strange one. Awakening ! What was the meaning of it ? 
But he said no more ; and they stood together in the sweet silence, 
in that confusion of delightful sound which we call silence, because 
our human voices and noises have nothing to do with its harmony. 
There were birds singing, one would have said, on every twig, pour- 
ing fourth their experiences with a hundred repetitions, flitting from 
one branch to another, telling their several tales. On every side 
were mysterious depths of shadow, cool hollows, and long withdraw- 
ing vistas — a soft background, where Nature tenderly looked- on and 
watched, around that centre of life and brightness and reawakening. 
It was a scene for any painter ; the brown banks and spring foliage, 
all breathing new life ; the sunny opening, all full of the warmth 
of the present sunshine : Nora, a pretty attendant figure on the 
grass among the trees, all flushed with light and shadow, stooping 
to gather handfuls of primroses, while the others stood diffident, 
charmed, shy of each other, lingering together. It seemed to John 
the new world in which all life begins again ; to Edith it was only a 
confusing, bewildering, alarming sort of fairyland, which all her 
instincts taught her it was right to flee from. “ Look at Nora, with 
her basket full,” she cried hurriedly, “ and we doing nothing I Let 
us go and help her.” 


CHAPTER XIL 

It was a rainy morning when the Lindores went away. They 
were not rich enough to command all the delights of the London 
season, and had no house in town, nor any position to keep up 
which demanded their presence. The Earls of Lindores were 
merely Scotch lords. They had no place in Parliament, no im- 


. THE LADIES LINDORES, 


103 


portance in the realm. Hitherto a succession of unobtrusive but 
proud country gentlemen, not fond of appearing where their claims 
were not fully recognized, had borne the name, and contented them- 
selves with their dignity at home, which no one questioned, if, per- 
haps, it was never very reverentially regarded. It was enough for 
them to make a visit to London now and then, to comment upon 
the noise and bigness of town, to attend a levee and a drawing- 
room, and to come home well pleased that they had no need to 
bind themselves to the chariot wheels of fashion. The late earl 
had been entirely of this mind ; and the consequence was that 
nobody in those busy circles which call themselves Society knew 
anything about the Lindores. 

But the present bearer of these honors was of a very different 
intention. It galled him to be so little though he was so much — the 
representative of a great race (in his own thinking), and yet nobody, 
made of no account among his own class. Perhaps Lord Lindores 
thought all the more of his position that it had not come to him in 
easy natural succession, but by right of a great family catastrophe, 
and after his life had been long settled on a different and much 
humbler basis. It is certain that he had no mind to accept it as his 
predecessors had done. He meant to vindicate a position for him- 
self, to assert his claim among the best. What he intended in his 
heart was to turn his old Scotch earldom into a British peerage by 
hook or crook, and in the mean time to get himself elected a repre- 
sentative peer of Scotland, and attain the paradise of hereditary 
legislatorship by one means or another. This was his determina- 
tion, and had been so from the moment when the family honors 
came to him. 

In the very afternoon of the solemn day when he heard of the 
death of his brother, and his own entirely unlooked-for elevation, 
this is what he resolved upon. He had withdrawn to his own room 
to be alone — to consider the wonderful revolution which had taken 
place, and, if he could, to expend a tear upon the three ended lives 
which had opened up that position to him — when this intention first 
rose in his mind. As a matter of fact, he had been sad enough. 
The extinction of these lives, the transference to himself of the hon- 
ors which, for aught he knew, might be taken from him to-morrow, 
was too startling to be otherwise than sad. He had retired within 
himself, he had compelled himself to think of the poor boy Rintoul 
dead in his bloom, of the heart-broken father who had followed him 
to the grave, and to represent to himself, with all the details most 
likely to move the heart, that terrible scene. And he had been sat- 
isfied to feel that he was sad — that the natural wofulness of this 
spectacle had moved him enough even to counterbalance the tremor 
and elation of this extraordinary turn of fortune. But his very sad- 
ness and overwhelming sense of a visible fate working in the history 
of his family gave him an impulse which was not ungenerous. On 
the instant, even while he solicited the moisture in his eyes to come 
the length of a tear, the thought leaped into his mind that if he was 


104 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


spared, if he had time to do anything, it should not be merely a 
Scotch earldom that he would transmit to his son. 

At last Lindores had come into the possession of one who knew 
what he wanted, and meant to obtain it. His family, which had 
suffered so much, should no longer be pushed aside among the titled 
nobodies. It should have its weight in the councils of the sovereign 
and in the history of the kingdom. ‘‘ The house shall not suffer 
because I have come to the head of it,’' he cried. He felt that he 
could compensate it for the series of misfortunes it had endured by 
adding importance and dignity to the name. He made up his mind, 
then, that when his son succeeded him it should be as a peer of the 
realm. And it was to this end, and with this inspiration, that so 
great a change had come upon him. For this he had set his heart 
upon making his county a model for every shire in England. To 
this end he had determined to wrest the seat from the Tory repre- 
sentative, and put in his son in the Liberal interest. A seat so im- 
portant gained, an influence so great established, what Ministry 
could refuse to the representative of one of the oldest families in 
the North the distinction which ought to have been his long before ? 

Nobody suspected the eaiTs meaning in its fullest extent. Old 
Miss Barbara Erskine was the only one who had partly divined him ; 
but of all the people who did not understand his intentions the wife 
of his bosom was the first. To her high mind, finely unsuspicious, 
because so contemptuous of mean motives, this little ambition 
would, perhaps, have seemed pettier than it really was ; for if no- 
bility is worth having at all, surely it is best to possess all its privi- 
leges. And perhaps, had Lady Lindores been less lofty in her ideal, 
her husband would have been more disposed to open his inmost 
thoughts to her, and thus correct any smaller tendency. It was this 
that had made him insist upon Carry’s marriage. He wanted to ally 
himself with the richest and most powerful people within his reach, 
to strengthen himself in every way, extending the family connection 
so that he should have every security for success when the moment 
came for his great coup. And he was anxiously alive to every happy 
chance that might occur for the two of his children who were still to 
marry — anxious yet critical. He would not have had Rintoul marry 
a grocer’s daughter for her hogsheads, as Miss Barbara said. He 
would have him, if possible, to marry the daughter of a minister of 
state, or some other personage of importance. He intended Rintoul 
to be a popular member of Parliament, a rising man altogether, 
thinking he could infuse enough of his own energy as well as ambi- 
tion into the young man to secure these ends. And this great aim 
of his was the reason why he underwent the expense of a season, 
though a short one, in town. He was of opinion that it was impor- 
tant to keep himself and his family in the knowledge of the world, 
to make it impossible for any fastidious fashionable to say, “ Who 
is Lord Lindores ? ” The earl, by dint of nursing this plan in his 
mind, and revealing it to nobody, had come to think it was a great 
aim. 

It was, as we have said, a rainy morning when the family left 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


105 


Lindores. They made the journey from Edinburgh to London by 
night, as most people do. But before they reached Edinburgh there 
was a considerable journey, and those two ferries of which Rolls had 
reminded Colonel Barrington. Two great firths to cross, with no 
small amount of sea when the Wind is in the east, was no such small 
.matter. Lady Caroline had driven over in the morning to bid her 
mother good-bye, and it was she who was to deposit Nora Barring- 
Iton at Chiefswood, where her next visit was to be paid. There had 
been but little conversation between the mother and daughter on the 
subject of that scene which Edith had witnessed, but Lady Lindores 
could not forbear a word of sympathy in the last half-hour they were 
to spend together. They were seated in her dressing-room, which 
was safe from interruption. I do not like to leave you, my dar- 
ling,” Lady Lindores said, looking wistfully into her daughter’s pale 
face. 

It does not matter, mother. Oh, you must not think of me, 
and spoil your pleasure. I think perhaps things go better some- 
times when I have no one to fall back upon,” said poor Lady Caro- 
line. 

Oh, Carry, my love, what a thing that is to say ! ” 

Carry did not make any reply at first. She was calm, not excited 
at all. ‘‘Yes; I think perhaps I am more patient, more resigned, 
when I have no one to fall back upon. There is no such help in 
keeping silence as when you have no one to talk to,” she added, with 
a faint smile. 

Her mother was much more disturbed in appearance than she. 
She was full of remorse as well as sympathy. “ I did not think — I 
never knew it was so bad as this,” she said, faltering, holding in her 
own her child’s thin hands. 

“ What could it be but as bad as this ? ” said Carry. “ We both 
must have known it from the‘ beginning, mother. It is of no use 
saying anything. I spoke to Edith the other day because she came 
in the midst of it, and I could not help myself. It never does any 
good to talk. When there is no one to speak to I shall get on bet- 
ter, you will see.” 

* “In that case it is best for us to be away from you — Carry, my 
darling 1 ” Lady Lindores was frightened by the wild energy with 
which her daughter clutched her arm. 

“ Oh no, no ! don’t think that. If I could not look across to 
Lindores and think there was some one there who loved me, I should 
go out of my senses. Don’t let us talk of it. How curious to 
think you are going away where I used always to wish tp go — to 
London! No, don’t look so. I don’t think I have the least wish to 
go now. There must be ghosts there — ghosts everywhere,” she said, 
\vith a sigh, “ except at home. There are no ghosts at Tinto ; that is 
one thing I may be thankful for.” 

“ I don’t think,” said her mother, with an attempt to take a 
lighter tone, “ that London is a likely place for ghosts.” 

“ Ah, don’t you think so? Mother,” said Carry, suddenly, “ I 
am afraid of John Erskine. He never knew of what happened — 

5 * 


io6 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


after. What so likely as that he might have people to stay with him 
— people from town ? 

Nobody — whose coming would make any difference to us — 
would accept such an invitation, Carry. Of that you may be sure.’* 

. Do you think so, mother?” she said; then added, with some 
wistfulness, ‘‘ But perhaps it might be thought that no one would 
mind. That must be the idea among people who know. And there 
might be, you know, a little curiosity to see for one’s self how it was. 
I think I could understand that without any blame.” 

No, I do not think so — not where there was any delicacy of 
mind. It would not happen. A chance meeting might take place 
anywhere else ; but here, in our own country, oh no, no ! ” 

‘‘You think so? ” said Lady Caroline. Perhaps there was a 
faint disappointment as well as relief in her tone. “ I do not know 
how or why, but I am afraid of John Erskine,” she said again, after 
a pause. 

“My dearest ! he brings back old associations.” 

“It is not that. I feel as if there was something new, some 
other trouble, coming in his train.” 

“You were always fanciful,” her mother said; “and you are 
feverish. Carry, and nervous. I don’t like to leave you. I wish 
there could be some one with you while we are away. You would 
not ask Nora ? ” 

“ I am better without company,” she said, shaking her head. 
“ In some houses guests are always inconvenient. One never 
knows — and, indeed, things go better when we are alone. Don’t 
vex yourself about me. There is the carriage. And one thing more 
— take care of Edith, mother dear.” 

“ Of Edith? But surely! she will be my constant companion. 
Why do you say take care of Edith, Carry? ” 

“ I think I have a kind of second-sight — or else it is my nerves, as 
you say. I feel as if there were schemes about Edith. My father 
will want her — to marry — that is quite right, I suppose ; and in town 
she will see so many people. I am like an old raven, boding harm. 
But you will stand by her, mother, whatever happens ? ” 

“ Oh, Carry, my darling, don’t reproach me ! ” cried her mother ; 
“ it breaks my heart ! ” 

“ Reproach you ! Oh, not for the world ! How could I reproach 
my dearest friend — always my best support and comfort ? No, no, 
mamma — no, no. It is only that I am silly with sorrow to see you 
all go away. And yet I want you to go away, to get all the pleasure 
possible. But only, if anything should happen — if Edith should — 
meet any one — you will be sure to stand by her, mamma ? ” 

“ Are you ready? Are you coming? The carriage is waiting,” 
said Lord Lindores at the door. 

Carry gave a little start at the sound of his voice, and her mother 
rose hastily, catching up a shawl from the sofa on which she had 
been sitting — a sortof excuse for a moment’s delay. “ Let me see 
that we have got everything,” she said, hurriedly ; and coming back, 
took her daughter once more into her arms. “ Take care of your- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


107 


self — oh, take care of yourself, my darling ! And if you should 
want me — if it should prove too much — if you find it more than you 
can bear ” 

‘‘ I can bear anything for a month,” said Lady Caroline, with a 
smile ; “and I tell you things go better — 2inA you will be all the 
better for forgetting me for awhile, mother dear.” 

“ As if that were possible. Carry ! ” 

“ No, no ; thank God, it is not possible. But I shall do very 
well, and you will not have my white face forever before your eyes. 
There is my father calling again. Good-bye, mother dear — good- 
bye ! ” and as they kissed Carry breathed once more that prayer, 
“ Take care of Edith ! ” — in which Lady Lindores read the most 
tender and heart-rending of all reproaches — in her mother’s ear. 

They drove to the little station, a large party. Lady Caroline, 
who was the element of care and sadness in it, made an effort to cast 
her troubles behind her for the sake of the travellers. As they all 
walked about on the little platform waiting the arrival of the slow- 
paced local train, it was she who looked the most cheerful — so cheer- 
ful that her mother and sister, not unwilling to be deceived, could 
scarcely believe that this was the same being who had been “ silly 
with sorrow” to part from them. Between Lord Lindores and his 
daughter there had always been a certain shadow and coldness since 
her marriage ; but to-day even he seemed to miss the tacit reproach 
in her look, and to feel at his ease with Carry. Before the train ar- 
rived John Erskine, too, appeared on the platform to say good-bye 
to his friends. John was by far the most downcast of the party. “ I 
shall vegetate till you come back,” he said to Lady Lindores, not 
venturing to look at Edith, who listened to him with a smile all the 
same, mocking his sentiment. She was not afraid of anything he 
could say at that moment. 

“ Come and meet us this day month,” she said, “ and let us see 
if you are in leaf or blossom, Mr. Erskine.” 

John gave her a reproachful glance. He did not feel in the 
humor even to answer with a compliment — with a hint that the sun- 
shine which encourages blossom would be veiled over till she came 
back, though some lover-like conceit of the kind had floated vaguely 
through his thoughts. When the travellers disappeared at last, the 
three who remained were left standing forlorn on the platform, 
flanked by the entire strength of the station (one man and a boy, 
besides the station-master), which had turned out to see his lordship 
and her ladyship off. They looked blankly at each other, as those 
who are left behind can scarcely fail to do. Nora was the only one 
who kept up a cheerful aspect. “ It is only for a month, after all,” 
she said, consoling her companions. But Carry dropped back in a 
moment out of her false courage, and John looked black as a thun- 
der-cloud at the well-meant utterance. He was so rude as to turn 
his back upon the comforter, giving Lady Caroline his arm to take 
her to her carriage. With her he was in perfect sympathy — he even 
gave her hand a little pressure in brotherly kindness and fellow-feel- 
ing ; there was nothing to be said in words. Neither did she say 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


io8 

anything to him ; but she gave him a grateful glance, acknowledging 
that mute demonstration. At this moment the stillness which had 
fallen round the place, after the painful puffing off of the train, was 
interrupted by the sound of horse’s hoofs, and Torrance came thun- 
dering along on his black horse. Lady Caroline made a hurried 
spring into the carriage, recognizing the sound, and hid herself in its 
depths before her husband came up. 

Halloo!” he cried. ‘‘ Gone, are they? I thought I should 
have been in time to say good-bye. But there are plenty of you 
without me. Why, Car, you look as if you had buried them all, 
both you and Erskine. What’s the matter ? is she going to faint ? ” [ 

I never faint,” said Lady Caroline, softly, from the carriage 
window. I am tired a little. Nora, we need not wait now.” 

And you look like a dead cat, Erskine,” said the civil squire. 

It must have been a tremendous parting, to leave you all like thisi 
Hey 1 wait a moment ; don’t be in such a hurry. When will you 
come over and dine, and help Lady Car to cheer up a bit ? After 
this she’ll want somebody to talk to, and she don’t appreciate me in 
that line. Have we anything on for Tuesday, Car, or will that 
suit ? ” 

Any day that is convenient for Mr. Erskine,” said Carry, fal- 
tering, looking out with pitiful deprecation and a sort of entreaty at 
John standing by. Her wistful eyes seemed to implore him not to 
think her husband a brute, yet to acknowledge that he was so all 
the same. 

Then we’ll say Tuesday,” said Torrance. Come over early 
and see the place. I don’t suppose you have so many invitations 
that you need to be asked weeks in advance. But don’t think I am 
going to cheat you of your state dinner. Oh, you shall have that in 
good time, and all the old fogies in the county. In the meantime, 
as you’re such' old friends, it’s for Lady Car I’m asking you now.” 
This was said with a laugh which struck John’s strained nerves as 
the most insolent he had ever heard. 

I need not say that I am at Lady Caroline’s disposition — when 
she pleases,” he replied, very gravely. 

Oh, not for me — not for me,” she cried, under her breath. 
Then, recovering herself, I mean — forgive me ; I was thinking of 
something else. On Tuesday, if you will come, Mr. Erskine — it 
will be most kind to come. And, Nora, you will come too ? — To 
Chiefswood,” she said, as the servant shut the door, falling back, 
with a look of relief, into the shelter of the carriage. The two men 
stood for a moment looking after it as it whirled away. Why they 
should thus stand in a kind of forced antagonism, John Erskine, at 
least, did not know. The railway forces looked on vaguely behind ; 
and Torrance, curbing his impatient horse, made a great din and 
commotion on the country road. 

‘‘ Be quiet, you brute ! We didn’t bargain for Nora — eh, Ers- 
kine ? — she’s thrown in,” said Torrance, with that familiarity which 
was so offensive to John. To be sure, three’s no company, they 
say. It’s a pity they play their cards so openly — or rather, it’s a 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


109 


great thing for you, my fine fellow. You were put on your guard 
directly, I should say. I could have told them no man was ever 
caught like that — and few men know better than I do all the ways 
of it,” he said, with a laugh. 

‘‘You have the advantage of me,” said Erskine, coldly. “I 
don’t know who is playing cards, or what I have to do with them. 
Till Tuesday — since I have Lady Caroline’s commands,” he said, 
lifting his hat. 

“ Confound ” the other said, under his breath ; but John had 

already turned away. Torrance stared after him, with a doubt in 
his eyes whether he should not pursue and pick a quarrel on the 
spot ; but a moment’s reflection changed his plans. “ I’ll get more 
fun out of him yet before I’m done with him,” he said, half to him- 
self. Then he became aware of the observation of Sandy Struthers, 
the porter and the boy who had formed the background, and were 
listening calmly to all that was said.. He turned round upon them 
quickly. “Hey, Sandy! what’s wrong, my man? Were you 
waiting to spy upon Mr. Erskine and me ?” 

“ Me — spying I Not me ; what would I spy for ? ” was the por- 
ter’s reply. He was too cool to be taken by surprise. “ What’s 
that to me if twa gentlemen spit and scratch at ilk ither like cats or 
women folk,? ” he said, slowly. He had known Tinto “ a’ his days,” 
and was not afraid of him. A porter at a little roadside station may 
be pardoned if he is misanthropical. He did not even change his 
position, as a man less accustomed to waiting about with his hands 
hanging by his side might have done. 

“You scoundrel ! how dare you talk of spitting and scratching 
to me ?” 

“’Deed I daur mair than that,” said Sandy, calmly. “You’ll 
no take the trouble to complain to the directors, Tinto, and I’m 
feared for naebody else. But you shouldna quarrel — gentlemen 
shouldna quarrel. It, sets a bad example to the country-side.” 

“ Quarrel ! nothing of the sort. That’s your imagination. I 
was asking Mr. Erskine to dinner,” said Tinto, with his big laugh. 

•“ Weel, it looked real like'it. I wouldna gang to your dinner, 
Tinto, if you asked me like that.” 

“ Perhaps you wouldn’t take a shilling if I tossed it to you like 
that?” 

“ It’s a’thegither different,” said Sandy, catching the coin adroitly 
enough. “ I see nae analogy atween the twa. But jist take you my 
advice and quarrel nane, sir, especially with that young lad : thae 
Erskines are a dour race.” 

“ You idiot! I was asking him to dinner,” Torrance said. He 
was on friendly terms with all the common people, with a certain 
jocular roughness which did not displease them. Sandy stood im- 
perturbable, with all the calm of a man accustomed to stand most of 
his time looking on at the vague and quiet doings of the world about 
him. Very little ever happened about the station. To have had a 
crack with Tinto was a great entertainment after the morning excite- 
ment, enough to maintain life upon for a long time, of having helped 


no 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


the luggage into the van, and assisted my lord and my lady to get 
away. 

I wish,’’ cried Nora, as they rolled along the quiet road, that 
you would not drag me in wherever John Erskine is going. Car.” 

They all called him John Erskine. It was the habit of the neigh- 
borhood, from which even strangers could scarcely get free. 

I drag you in ! Ah, see how selfish we are without knowing ! ” 
said Carry. I thought only that between Mr. Torrance and my- 
self — there would be little amusement.” 

Amusement ! ” cried Nora — “ always amusement 1 Is that all 
that is ever to be thought of even at a dinner-party ? ” 

Carry was too serious to take up this challenge. Dear Nora,” 
she said, I am afraid of John Erskine, though I cannot tell you 
why. I think Mr. Torrance tries to irritate him : he does not mean 
it — but they are so different. I know by my own experience that 
sometimes a tone, a look — which is nothing, which means nothing — 
will drive one beside one’s self. That is why I would rather he did 
not come ; and when he comes I want some one — some one indiffer- 
ent — to help me to make it seem like a common little dinner — like 
every day.” 

“ Is it not like everyday? Is there — anything? If you want 
me, Carry, of course there is not a word to be said.” Nora looked 
at her with anxious, somewhat astonished eyes. She, too, was 
aware that before Carry’s marriage — before the family came to 
Lindores — there had been some one else. But if that had been John, 
how, then, did it happen that Edith Nora stopped short, con- 

founded. To her young imagination the idea, not so very dreadful 
a one, that a man who had loved one sister might afterward con- 
sole himself with another, was a sort of sacrilege. But friendship 
went above all. 

‘‘ I do not think I can explain it to you, Nora,” said Lady Caro- 
line. There are so many things one cannot explain. Scarcely any- 
thing in this world concerns one’s very self alone and nobody else. 
That always seems to make confidences so impossible.” 

‘‘Never mind confidences,” cried Nora, wounded. “I did not 
ask why. I said if you really wanted me, Carry ” 

“ I know you would not ask why. And there is nothing to tell. 
Mr. Torrance has had a mistaken idea. But it is not that altogether. 
I am frightened without any reason. I suppose it is as my mother 
says, because of all the old associations he brings back. Marriage 
is so strange a thing. It cuts your life in two. What was before 
seems to belong to some one else — to another world.” 

“ Is it always so, I wonder ? ” said Nora, wistfully. 

“ So far as I know,” Carry said. 

“ Then I think St. Paul is right,” cried the girl, decisively, “ and 
that it is not good in that case to marry; but never mind, if you 
want me. There is nothing to be frightened about in John Erskine. 
He is nice enough. He would not do anything to make you uncom- 
fortable. He is not ill-tempered nor ready to take offence.” 

“ I did not know that you knew him so well, Nora.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


III 


Oh, yes ; when you have a man thrust upon you as he has been ; 
when you have always heard of him all your life ; when people have 
said for years — in fun, you know, of course, but still they have said 
it — ‘ Wait till you see John Erskine ! ’ ’’ 

Nora’s tone was slightly aggrieved. She could not help feeling 
herself a little injured that, after so much preparation and so many 
indications of fate, John Erskine should turn out to be nothing to her 
after all. 

Lady Caroline listened with an eager countenance. Before Nora 
had done speaking she turned upon her, taking both her hands. Her 
soft gray eyes widened out with anxious questions. The corners of 
her mouth drooped. Nora, dear child — dear child!” she said, 

‘^you cannot mean — you do not say ” 

Oh, 1 don’t say anything at all,” cried Nora, half angry, half 
amused, with a laugh at herself which was about a quarter part in- 
clined to crying. No, of course not, Car. How could I care for 
him — a man I had never seen ? But Just — it seems so ludicrous, 
after this going on all one’s life, that it should come to nothing in a 
moment. I never can help laughing when I think of it. ‘ Oh, wait 
till you see John Erskine ! ’ Since I was fifteen everybody has said 
that. And then when he did appear at last, oh — I thought him very 
nice — I had no objection to him — I was not a bit unwilling — to see 
him calmly turn his back upon me, as he did to-day at the station ! ” 
Nora laughed till the tears came into her eyes; but Lady Caro- 
line, whose seriousness precluded any admixture of humor in the 
situation, took the young girl in her arms and kissed her, with a 
pitying tenderness and enthusiasm of consolation. My little Nora ! 
my little Nora t ” she said. She was too much moved with the most 
genuine emotion and sympathy to say more ; at which Nora, half 
accepting the crisis, half struggling against it, laughed again and 
again till the tears rolled over her cheeks. 

“Lady Car! Lady Car! it is not for sorrow; it is the fun of it 
— the fun of it ! ” she cried. 

But Carry did not see the fun. She wanted to soothe the sorrow 
away. 

^ “ Dearest Nora, this sort of disappointment is only visionary,” 

she said. “ It is your imagination that is concerned, not your heart. 
Oh, believe me, dear, you will laugh at it afterward ; you will think 
it nothing at all. How little he knows ! I shall think less of his 
good-sense, less of his discrimination, than I was disposed to do. 
To think of a man so left to himself as to throw my Nora away ! ” 

“ He has not thrown me away,” cried Nora, with a little pride ; 
“ because, thank Heaven, he never knew that he had me in his 
power. But you must think more, not less, of his discrimination. 
Carry ; for if he never had any eyes for me, it was for the excellent 
good reason that he had seen Edith before. So my pride is saved — 
quite saved,” the girl cried. 

“ Edith ! ” Carry repeated after her. And then her voice rose 
almost to a shriek — “ Edith ! You cannot mean that ? ” 

“ But I do mean it. Oh, I know there will be a thousand diffi- 


1 12 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


ciilties. Lord Lindores will never consent : that is why they go and 
do it, I suppose.- Because she was the last person he ought to have 

fallen in love with, as they say in the Critic ” 

Edith ! repeated Carry again. Nora was half satisfied, half 
disappointed, to find that her own part of the story faded altogether 
from her friend’s mind when this astonishing piece of intelligence 
came in. Then she whispered, in an awe-stricken voice, ‘‘ Does my 
mother know ? ” 

‘‘Nobody knows— not even Edith herself. I saw it, because, 
you know And of course,” Cried Nora, in delightful self-con- 

tradiction, “ it does not matter at all when I meet him now ; for he 
is not thinking of me any longer, but of her. Oh, he never did 
think of me, except to say to himself, ‘ There is that horrid girl 
again ! ’ 

This time Nora’s laugh passed without any notice from Carry, 
whose thoughts were absorbed in her sister’s concerns. “ Was not I 
right,” she said, clasping her hands, “ when I said I was frightened 
for John Erskine ? I said so to my mother to-day. What I was 
thinking of was very different : that he might quarrel with Mr. Tor- 
rance — that harm might come in that way. But oh, this is worse, 
far worse! Edith! I thought she at least would Ido safe. How 
short-sighted we are even in our instincts! Oh, my little sister! 
What can I do, Nora — what can I do to save her ? ” 

Nora received this appeal with a countenance trembling between 
mirth and vexation. She did not think Edith at all to be pitied. 
If there was any victim — and the whole matter was so absurd that 
she felt it ought not to be looked at in so serious a light — but if 
there was a victim, it was not Edith, but herself. She could only 
reply to Carry’s anxiety with a renewed outbreak of not very com- 
fortable laughter. ‘‘ Save her ! You forget,” she said, with sudden 
gravity, “ that Edith is not one to be saved unless she pleases. And 
if she should like Mr. Erskine 

“ My father will kill her !” Lady Caroline cried. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

'■V 

Lord Rintoul made his appearance in the house which his 
parents had hired in Eaton Place on the day before their arrival 
with a mixture of satisfaction and anxiety. He was pleased, for he 
was a good young fellow on the whole, and fond of his mother and 
sister ; but he was anxious, for he Was a Guardsman — a young man 
about town, “ up,” as he modestly hoped, to most things, — and 
they were people from the country, who in all probability were not 
quite dressed as they ought to be, or prepared for the duties of their 
position. These mingled sentiments were apparent in the young 
man’s face as he walked into the room in which Lady Lindores and 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


113 

Edith were sitting together, working out on their side a programme 
of the things they were going to do. Notwithstanding Carry, they 
were both tolerably cheerful, looking forward to the excitement of 
this unaccustomed life with a little, stir of anticipation; for njeither 
mother nor daughter was blasee, and the thrill of quickened existence, 
in a place where human pulses beat more rapidly and the tide runs 
fuller than elsewhere, moved them in spite of themselves. Lady 
Lindores would have said, and did say, that her heart was not in it — 
and this in perfect good faith ; yet when she was actually in London, 
though her daughter’s pale face and lonely life were often present 
with her, the impression was less strong than when that white face, 
as poor Carry said, was constantly before her eyes. She was a 
handsome woman of forty-five, with a liking for all that was beauti- 
ful, a love of conversation and movement, much repressed by the 
circumstances of her life, but always existing ; and when thus free 
for a moment from habitual cares her heart rose almost in spite of 
herself, and she was able to believe that things would set themselves 
right somehow, even though she did not see from whence the allevi- 
ation was to come. She was discussing with Edith many things that 
they had planned and thought of, when Rintoul arrived. Their 
plans embraced various matters which were not within the range of 
that golden youth’s ideas. When they had been in London before, 
they had vexed his soul by the list of things they had wanted' to 
see. The sights of London, such as country people of the lower 
orders went staring about ; Westminster Abbey, the Houses of Par- 
liament, even St. Paul’s and the Tower — things which he had never 
seen nor thought of seeing himself, though he often passed the 
former, not taking any notice, thinking it was ‘‘bad form” to show 
any rustic curiosity. His mother and the girls had scoffed at all he 
said about “ bad form;” but now they were accustomed to their 
change of circumstances, and everything was different. Would 
they be reasonable, and acknowledge that there were certain mat- 
ters in which he was an authority now ? 

Rintoul himself had made, he was conscious, immense progress 
since he first stepped upon that platform of rank to which he was 
now accustomed. At first the elevation had made him a little 
giddy. Young Robin Lindores, of the One Hundred and Twentieth, 
had been on the whole a very simple young fellow, pleased to feel 
that he had the benefit of “ good connections,” and an uncle who 
was an earl, though they had never been of any use to him. Even 
in that innocent stage, he was, as is natural to a young man, vaguely 
critical of the proceedings of his “ people.” He thought it was a 
pity they should live abroad. 

Were they at home, it appeared certain to him that he would 
now and then have been invited to Lindores for the shooting, and 
been taken some notice of. But, on the other hand, he acknowl- 
edged that to live abroad was cheap, and that it was better for him 
on the whole to say, “ My people are abroad,” than to be obliged to 
acknowledge that they were living in a little country cottage some- 
where, or in Brighton or Cheltenham, or some shabby-genteel place. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


1 14 

And he did his duty very cheerfully, and kept tolerably well within 
his allowance, and took such pleasures as came in his way, without 
any very clear outlook toward the future, but always with some hope 
of active service and promotion. So long as he had ‘‘something to 
do " — a little cricket or boating, a tolerable amount of parties — he 
neither looked too closely into the pedegree of his entertainers, nor 
gave himself any airs on the subject of his own birth and connec- 
tions. For what was he, after all ? Not even an honorable himself, ’ 
but the son of an honorable — plain Mr. Lindores, no more than Mr. 
Smith or Mr. Jones. It never occurred to him that his position de- 
manded anything of him in those days ; for what position had he 
but that of a lieutenant in the One Hundred and Twentieth ! 

In society, though he would pretend now and then, like the rest, 
to talk of this and that girl as having money — or “ tin,” as it was 
more usually called — such a prudential consideration never went be- 
yond the mere light flutter of talk ; and he liked to dance, not with 
the heiresses, but with the prettiest girls and the best dancers, as 
was natural and befitting — to marry anybody being entirely out of 
his role. He knew himself to be wiser than his mother, and to know 
more of life than even the governor himself, who (no fault of his) was 
growing an old fogy in the course of nature ; but, on the whole, he 
was respectful enough to these old persons when he was with them, 
and in his way fond of them all, and even proud of little Edith’s 
prettiness, and the distinguished looks of Carry, who was always like 
a princess, though she was not pretty. 

When, however, that sudden and unlocked for advancement 
came, and Robin Lindores at one bound became Lord Rintoul, the 
change that passed over him was something wonderful. It was as 
great a revolution as that which had converted the gentle and fas- 
tidious dilettante of former years into the energetic, ambitious Scotch 
carl who kept his family in awe and wonder. Robin changed as 
much, or almost as much, as his father had changed. He left his 
simple regiment and all its little garrison gayeties and became a 
Guardsman, and was introduced into society. He learned the chatter 
of the drawing-rooms and clubs, and to talk familiarly about every- 
body, and to think he understood all the motives (almost always 
supposed to be bad ones) which swayed their conduct. 

Perhaps it was his familiarity with these tales which drove the 
young man into such an alarmed state of susceptibility as to the risk 
of encountering in his own person, or in his family, a similar freedom 
of comment. He said to himself that he knew “ how fellows talked,” 
and he could not bear that his sister should be pulled to pieces 
among them, and known as a rustic or an exaltie — one of the strong- 
minded sisterhood on the one hand, or a foolish bread-and-butter 
girl on the other. And Rintoul had become fully possessed by the 
idea that to get Edith “ off” was the first duty of the family. He 
felt that his pride would be touched if she did not secure a good 
marriage before the end of the season. “ Fellows would talk ;” they 
would say that she had been a failure ; that it was no good Lady 
Lindores hawking her daughter about ; that she had tried very hard 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


”5 


for this man, or flung herself at the other’s head, but it was no use. 
He knew that he had heard such things said a hundred times — per- 
haps been moved to echo them himself on the very slightest war- 
rant ; but the blood rushed to his face when it occurred to him that 
his sister in her turn might be subjected to such comments. And the 
only way for her to escape them was to succeed. Therefore, it was 
with a conviction of the importance of the crisis, which affected 
every nerve in his body, as well as all the powers of his mind, that 
Rintoul appeared in the little morning-room at Eaton Place. 

Every girl was said to throw herself at somebody’s head — to make 
a dead set at one man or another. Without that purpose no one 
was supposed to go into society. When she succeeded, and the man 
was secured, her triumph, it is true, was always discussed in the 
same way; but that was once for all, and the matter was done with. 
Therefore it was evident to Rintoul that Edith must succeed. She 
must secure somebody before the season was out. He could not 
bear to have it said of her that she was hawked about. At the same 
time this anxious young man saw the difficulties. His people” 
had not a very large acquaintance. His mother was not half up to 
her duties as a mother. Edith herself, though a very pretty girl, was 
not a beauty of the undeniable and unconquerable sort. 

So much the more grave were all the difficulties of the situation, 
and so much the more important all the expedients that could be 
adopted, all the precautions that Rintoul — perhaps, he felt, the only 
one of the family who fully perceived them — must take. Their ap- 
pearance, their gowns and bonnets, the places they intended to ap- 
pear in — all these were of the utmost consequence — a consequence, 
he was afraid, which the real head of the party, she who ought to be 
the chief mover in the matter, could scarcely be got to understand, 
much less to take into earnest consideration as she ought. 

This was why his pleasure in seeing his people was shadowed by 
so much anxiety. His smile was only on the lower part of his face 
— all the rest was clouded with an almost fretful disquietude. He 
did not even know whether he could make them understand the im- 
portance of the crisis. They would receive him, he felt sure, with 
levity, with minds directed to things of no consequence whatever ; 
and it was natural that this sense, that he was the only person who 
understood the gravity of the situation, should make Rintoul’s coun- 
tenance serious. As he kissed his mother and sister he looked them 
all over, taking in every detail of their appearance, and uttering a 
mental thanksgiving, and felt an enormous relief to find that there 
was little to remark upon. They would not look amiss anywhere,” 
he said to himself. But this gleam of contentment was soon dimmed 
by the reflection that you never can know how a woman will look 
till you have seen her in her out-door costume. The bonnet is such 
a test ! Mostlikely they wore impossible bonnets. So the contrac- 
tion returned to his forehead once more. 

So here you are,” he said. “ I am mighty glad to see you. I 
thought everything worth while would be over before you came.” 

“ And what is there that is worth while that is not over ? ” said 


Ii6 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


his mother. We defer to your superior knowledge. We in our 
ignorance were thinking of the concerts, and the pictures, and the 
new play.” 

Ah, that’s all very well. Thefre not over, of course, nor will 
be so long as the season lasts,” said Rintoul, carelessly. “ 1 was 
thinking of more important things. 1 think I’ve got you cards for 
the next Chiswick fHe. It wanted diplomacy. I got Lady Reston, 
who is au mietix with Archy Ghaunter, to get them for you ; but you 
must have very nice toilets for that. The new Irish beauty went to 
the last a perfect fright in poplin and Limerick lace, all native pro- 
duct, and was the talk of the town. Thank Heaven there’s nothing 
but tartan indigenous to Scotland ! ” 

Let us go in tartan, mamma,” said Edith. It would be a 
graceful way of showing our nationality, and please the people who 
are going to elect Robin for the county.” 

If you think it would please the county,” said the countess, with 
much gravity, which almost paralyzed Rintoul ; but she added, shak- 
ing her head, ‘‘ Alas ! the county is not Highland at all, and scoffs 
at the tartan. We must try some other way.” 

1 wish you wouldn’t speak nonsense to aggravate me,” cried the 
young man. How am I to know when you’re in earnest, and when 
you are laughing ? But one thing I can tell you : unless you are well 
dressed, you need never think of going at all. Old-fashioned gowns 
that do well enough for the country — though even in the country I 
don’t think you ought ever to be careless of your dress ” 

You seem to be an authority,” said Edith, laughing. You 
will have to tell us if our gowns are old-fashioned.” 

‘‘‘ Well, I don’t suppose I am an authority ; I don’t understand 
details ; but I can tell on the whole, as well as another, whether a 
woman looks as she ought when she’s got up.” 

Conifne ilfant. I thought the phrase was untranslatable, but 
Robin has mastered it,” said Lady Lindores. 

You need not laugh at me, mother ; and I wish you wouldn’t, 
all of you, call me by that absurd name. I feel like a shepherd boy 
in a pastoral — the hero, you know — like Fidelio or Cherubino. Oh, 
I don’t say you are to call me Rintoul — that if you like ; but Tdon’t 
mind Bob ” 

Bob ! ” the mother and sister cried in one breath. They had 
all been secretly proud of that pet name of Robin, which he had 
borne from a child. 

It’s not worth talking of,” he said, carelessly, feeling something 
of ridicule involved ; for though he was not clever he was sufficiently 
sympathetic to be conscious of the sentiment in the minds of the others. 

The real question is, what are you going to do while you are in town. 
I have told everybody you were coming ; but, mamma, I hope you 
won’t balk everything by going on about theatres and pictures, and so 
forth. Society is a hundred times more important. It is not only 
amusing ourselves we have got to think of. It is all very well to laugh,” 
he said, with the most solemn air of offended dignity, ‘‘but anybody 
who knew the world would tell you the same thing.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


117 

My dear boy, .1 thought I knew a little about the world ; but I 
dare say I am mistaken. I hope, however,, you will permit us to 
amuse ourselves a little now and then. Edith wants to see something 
and hear something while she is in London. She has not had your 
advantages 

My advantages don’t count for very much,-^ said Rintoul, half 
irritated, half flattered, ^^and it’s just Edith I’m thinking of. There 
is more to be taken into consideration for her than either amusement 
or what you call improving her mind. Edith is the entire question. 
It is to do her justice that is my whole thought.” 

Edith, on hearing this, laughed out, yet flamed crimson, with 
mingled ridicule and suspicion. In what respect am I to have jus- 
tice ? ” she said. 

‘‘You needn’t fire up. All that I want is your good. You ought 
to be seen ; you ought to have your chance like the rest. How are 
you ever to have that if my mother and you fly about skylarking in 
all sorts of unlikely places, and keep out of the way of— every oppor- 
tunity ? ” 

Rintoul, though carried away by his feelings to the point of mak- 
ing this plain statement, was rather alarmed when he had said it, and 
stopped somewhat breathless. It was alarming to be confronted by 
his sister’s indignant countenance and the angry sparkle in her eyes. 

“ Do you know what he means, mother ? ” she cried. “ Did you 
bring me to London to market?- That’s what he means. Did you 
come to set up a booth in Vanity Fair ? If you did, you must find 
other wares. Rintoul would make such a good salesman, it is a pity 
to balk him. But I am not going to be put up to auction,” cried the 
girl, springing to her feet. Then she laughed, though she was so 
angry. “ 1 am going to get ready for a walk,” she said. “ I think 
that delightful bonnet that Miss Macalister in Dunearn made for me 
will be the very thing for the Park ” 

“ Heaven above ! do you let her have bonnets from Miss Macal- 
ister in Dunearn ? ” cried Rintoul,. dismayed, as his sister disap- 
peared. “ Even in the country I would never consent to that.” 

“ You must not pour too much wisdom upon us all at once,” said 
his mother, “ especially upon Edith, who is not used to it.” Lady 
Lindores could not take it all seriously. She was vexed at the bot- 
tom of her heart, yet could not but smile at the oracle who had so 
short a time before been simple Robin — her nice, kind, silly, lovable 
boy. He had not ceased to be lovable even in his new development 
as Mentor and man of the world. 

“ That is all very well, mother; but if you make a joke of it, 
what is the good of coming to town at all ?.” cried Rintoul, with his 
serious face — too serious to be angry. “ Edith may flare up if she 
pleases— she doesn’t know any better ; but surely you must under- 
stand she has never had her chance. Who is to see her down in the 
country ? There was Torrance, of course, but Carry snapped him 
up.” 

“ Robin,” said his mother, her countenance changing, “ I desire 
you will not speak in that heartless, vulgar way. Yes, my boy, it is 


u8 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


vulgar, though you think it so wise. Poor Carry, to her sorrow, has 
snapped up, as you say, a most unsuitable husband and a miserable 
life. I wish I was free of blame in that matter. We must make 
the best of it now, since there’s no remedy ; but to speak as if 
Carry’s marriage was something to be envied ” 

Well, Torrance is rather a brute,” Rintoul acknowledged, 
somewhat subdued ; ‘‘ but what a place and what a position ! Carry’s 
boy, with our connection and all that money, may be — anything she 
chooses to make him ” 

‘‘ Carry’s boy is not half so much to me as Carry herself,” said 
Lady Lindores, gravely; but that is done, and we must make the 
best of it,” she added, with a sigh. 

A girl may pick up a bad husband anywhere,” said Rintoul, 
regaining his confidence. It just as often happens in a hot love- 
match as in anything else. There’s Lily Trevor, old Lord War- 
hawk’s daughter, would never rest till they had let her marry 
Smithers of the Blues — and they say he beats her. Charley Floyd 
says there never was such a wretched 7nenage ; and she might have 
married half a dozen fellows, every one a better match than Smithers. 
There’s no accounting for these sort of things. But, mamma, unless 
we’re all mad together we must give Edith her chance. By Jove, 
when you think of it, she’s past her first bloom 1 ” — and that’s 
mostly the thing that fetches,” he added, parenthetically, under his 
breath) — she’s twenty-one, mother! The moment she’s seen any- 
where people will begin to calculate when she came out : and it’s 
three seasons back ! That does a girl more harm than anything. 
There’s always a little added on to every one’s age, and I shouldn’t 
wonder in the least if they made her out to be thirty! She doesn’t 
look it, fortunately ; but what are looks, when half the women one 
sees are made up like pictures? But mind my words, mother — you 
will repent it all your life if you don’t make up your mind now to 
give Edith one real good chance.” 

Lady Lindores made no reply. She began to lose her sense of 
amusement, and to feel vexed and humiliated, sore and wroth, as 
parents do when their children parade before them sentiments which 
are unworthy. Perhaps a woman cannot be quite just in such a pre- 
dicament. It may be all an unconscious fiction, this atrocious pre- 
cocious cynicism and worldliness of youth. Nothing is ever so cruelly 
conventional, so shamelessly egotistical, as the young disciple of 
social philosophy, who is possibly hiding a quivering and terrified 
youthful heart beneath that show of abominable wisdom. But it is 
hard for a mother whose whole heart is bent on finding excellence 
and nobleness in her child to be tolerant of what appears to be such 
apparent and unmistakable unworthiness. 

Lady Lindores felt, while her son was speaking, as if some bar- 
barous giant had got her heart in his hand and crushed it, clinching 
his cruel grasp. She did not look at him while he pleaded that 
Edith might have her chance, nor answer him when he had spoken. 
What could she say to the boy who could thus discourse to her like 
an old man learned in all wickedness ? There was a poignant sting 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


119 

of injured pride, too, in the sensation with which she listened to him. 
This from the boy she had trained, to whom she must have given 
his first conception of life, of women and their ways I Had it been 
her example, against her will, unconscious of any such possibility, 
that had taught him to despise them ? She looked at the young face 
so dear to her, and which was now full of all the gravity of convic- 
tion, endeavoring to enforce its doctrines upon her mind, with a mix- 
ture of hot impatience and hopeless toleration. Poor boy ! this was 
what he really thought, honestly believed, though he was her son ! 
His eyes were quite impressive in their sincerity. She ought to 
see people,” Rintoul said ; she ought to be seen. She has never 
been hawked about like other girls, so it does not matter so much 
that this isn’t her first season. People may forget it if we take no 
notice. But in another year, mother, if she does not have her 
chance now — in another year,” cried the anxious brother, with 
threatening solemnity, ‘‘it will be quite another matter. She has 
kept her bloom pretty well, but it will be gone by that time ; and 
when it’s gone she’ll not have half the chance. A girl must make 
hay while the sun shines,” he added, more and more dogmatically : 
“ we all of us ought to remember that, but for a girl it’s imperative 
— there is nothing that tells like the first bloom.” 

Still Lady Lindores did not make any reply. 

“ I wonder at you, mother,” he cried, exasperated. “ I should 
have thought it would be your first object to see Edith happily 
settled. And when you think how difficult it is — how many there 
are always ready waiting to snap up any fellow with money ! I 
believe,” he said, with a sort of prophetic wrath, a visionary anger 
at what might have been — “ I believe, if my father had not inter- 
fered, Carry was as likely as not to have married that Professor fel- 
low. By-the-way, isn’t Erskine at Dalrulzian ? and I dare say you 
have had him up at Lindores ? ” 

“ Certainly, we have had him up at Lindores. What is your ob- 
jection to that ? ” said Lady Lindores, quietly. 

And now it was Rintoul’s turn to sigh and shake his head with 
hopeless impatience. Was it impossible to get her to understand ? 
“ I don’t know what you people are thinking of,” he said, with a 
kind of quiet despair. “ Though you know what mischief happened 
before, you will have that fellow to the house, you will let him be 
with Edith as much as he pleases.” 

“ Edith !” cried Lady Lindores; and then she stopped short, 
and added, with a laugh, “ I assure you, Robin, there’s no danger 
in that quarter. The entire county has made up its mind that John 
Erskine is to marry Nora Barrington, and nobody else, whatever 
other people may say.” 

Now it was Rintoul’s turn to be red and indignant. He was so 
much startled that he sprung to his feet with an excitement alto- 
gether without justification. “Nora Barrington! ” he cried. “I 
would like to know what right any one has to mix up the name of 
an innocent girl — who never, I am certain, had either part or lot in 
such wretched schemings ” 


120 


THE LADIES LIN BORES. 


The same kind of schemings— but far more innocent — as those 
you would involve your sister in 1 ” cried Lady Lindores, rising too, 
with a deep flush upon her face. 

‘‘ Nothing of the kind, mother. Besides, the circumstances are 
entirely different,” he cried, hotly. Edith 7nust marry well. She 
must marry to advantage, for the sake of the family. But Nora— a 
girl that would never lend herself to — to — that never had a thought 
of interest in her head — that doesn’t know what money means — ■ — ” 
I am glad there is somebody you believe in, Robin,” his mother 

said. 

The young man saw his inconsistency, but that mattered little. 
It . is only in other people that we find consistency to be necessary. 
The consciousness made him kotter and less coherent perhaps, but 
no more. ‘‘ The cases are entirely different. I see no resemblance 
between them,” he said, with resentment and indignation in every 
tone. Lady Lindore’s would have been more, than human if she had 
not followed up her advantage. ' 

“ Yes,” she said, “ in Nora’s case even I myself, though I am no 
match-maker, feel disposed to aid in thesscheme; For nothing could 
be more entirely suitable. The same position, the same class, the 
same tastes ; and the Barringtons are poor^ so that it would be a 
great comfort to them to see their girl in a nice house of her own ; 
and she is very fond of Dalrulzian, and much liked in the neighbor- 
hood. I can' see everything in favor of the plan-^-nothing against 
it.” - ? . , 

“ Except that it will never, come to anything,” cried young Rin- 
toul. “ Good heavens ! Nora— a girl that one never could think of 
in any such way— that never in her life — I’ll answer for it — made 
any plans about whom she was to marry. Mother, I think you 
might have so much respectTor one of your own sex as to acknow- 
ledge that.” 

“ It is time to appeal to' my respect for my own sex,” cried Lady 
Lindores, with an angry laugh. If this was how the tables were to 
be turned upon her ! When she left the room, angry, yet indig- 
.nantly amused at the same time, Rintoul reflected with hot indig- 
nation upon the want of sympathy and fellow-feeling among women. 

When they do see a girl that’s above all that sort of thing, that it’s 
desecration to think of in that way, they either don’t understand her 
or they’re jealous of her,” he said to himself, with profound con- 
viction. “ Women don’t know what justice means.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The present writer has already confessed to a certain disincli^. 
nation to venture upon any exposition of the manners and customs 
of the great ; and should an attempt be made to thread the mazes 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


I2I 


of the season, and to represent in sober black and white the brilliant 
assemblies, the crowded receptions, the drawing-rooms and ball- 
rooms, and banqueting-rooms, all full of that sheen of satin and 
shimmer of pearls which only the most delicate manipulation, the 
lightest exquisite touch, can secure ? Could the writer's pen be 
dipped in tints as ethereal as those which fill the brush (if that is not 
too crude a word) of the accomplished president, then perhaps the 
task might be attempted ; but common ink is not equal to it. 

Though Lady Lindores was negligent of her duties, and did not 
give herself up as she ought to have done to the task of getting in- 
vitations and doing her daughter justice, yet her shortcomings were 
made up by the superior energy and knowledge of her husband and 
son. And, as a matter of fact, theyjwent everywhere, and saw a 
great deal of society. So far were they from being under the stan- 
dard at that Chiswick as Rintoul nervously, anticipated, that the 
graceful mother and pretty daughter were noticed by eyes whose 
notice is the highest distinction, and inquired into with that delight- 
ful royal curiosity which is so complimentary to mankind, and 
which must be one of the things which make the painful trade of 
sovereignty tolerable. Both the ladies, indeed, had so much succes^ 
that the anxious young Guardsman, who stalked about after them, 
too much disturbed to get any satisfaction in his own person, and 
watching their demeanor as with a hundred eyes, gradually allowed 
the puckers in his forehead to relax, and went off guard with a sigh 
of relief. Rintoul was more than relie ved-^he was delighted with 
the impression produced by Edith's fresh beauty. Oh, come ! 
she's a pretty little thing, if you please ; but not all that," he said, 
confused by the excess of approbation accorded to her by some 
complimentary friend. 

There was one drawback, however, to this satisfaction, and that 
was, that neither did Edith ‘‘mind a bit" who was introduced to 
her, who danced with her, or who took her' down to dinner, whether 
a magnificent young peer or a penniless younger son ; nor, still more 
culpable, did her mother pay the attention she ought to this, or take 
care as she ought that her daughter’s smiles were not thrown away. 
She was known once, indeed, to have — inconceivable folly — actually 
gone the length of introducing to Edith, in a ball-room bristling 
with eligible partners, a brilliant young artist, a “ painter-fellow," 
the very last person who ought to have been put in the girl’s way. 
“ If a girl goes wrong of herself, and is an idiot, why, you say, it’s 
because she knows no better," Rintoul said ; “ but when it’s her 
mother ! ” The young painter danced very well,, and was bright and 
interesting beyond, it is to be supposed, the general level ; and he 
hung about the ladies the whole evening, never long away from one 
or the other. 

Rintoul felt that if it happened only one other evening, all the 
world would say that there was something going on, and possibly 
some society paper would inform its anxious readers that “ a marriage 
is arranged.” On the other hand, that evening was marked with a 
white stone on which the young Marquis of Millefleurs, son of the 
6 


122 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


Duke of Lavender, made himself conspicuous as one of Edith’s ad- 
mirers, pursuing her wherever she went, till the foolish girl was dis- 
posed to be angry ; though Lady Lindores this time had the sense 
to excuse him as being so young, and to add that he seemed “ a nice 
sort of a boy ” — not a way, certainly, to recommend so desirable an 
adorer to a fanciful girl, but still perhaps, in the circumstances, as 
much as could be expected. Lady Lindores received with great 
composure a few days after an announcement from her husband that 
he had asked the youth to dinner. She repeated her praise with a 
perfectly calm countenance 

‘‘ I shall be glad to see him, Robert. I thought him a mere boy, 
very young, but frank and pleasant as a boy should be.” 

I don’t know what you call a boy. I believe he is four-and- 
twenty,” said Lord Lindores, with some indignation ; and then he 
added, in a subdued tone, as knowing that he had something less 
easy to suggest, “ I have asked someone else whom you will probably 
not look on in the same light. I should much rather have left him 
out, but there was no getting Millefleurs without him. He has been 
travelling with him as a sort of tutor-companion, I suppose.” Here 
he seemed to pause to get up his courage, which was so remarkable 
that his wife’s suspicions were instantly aroused. She turned toward 
him with a look of roused attention. 

I don’t hesitate to say that I am sorry to bring him again in 
contact with the family. Of course the whole affair was folly from 
beginning to end. But the young fellow himself behaved well enough. 
There is nothing against him personally, and I am rather willing to 
let him see that it has entirely passed from our minds.” 

Of whom are you speaking ? ” cried Lady Lindores. 

The earl actually hesitated, stammered, almost blushed, so far 
as a man of fifty is capable of blushing. You remember young 
Beaufort, whom we saw so much of in ” 

‘‘Beaufort!” cried Lady Lindores, Edward Her voice 
rose into a sort of shriek. 

“ He certainly was never Edward to me. I thought it best, when 
Millefleurs presented him to me, to receive him at once as an old 
acquaintance. And I hope you will do so also, without any fuss. It 
is very important that it should be made quite clear we have no fear 
of him, or feeling in the matter.” 

“Edward!” Lady Lindores said again. “How can I receive 
him as if I had no feeling in the matter ? He has called me mother. 
I have kissed him as Carry’s future husband. Good heavens ! and 
Carry, poor Carry ! ” 

“ I did not know you had been such a fool,” he cried, reddening ; 
then, after a pause, “ I see no reason why Carry should be called 
poor. Her position at home is in some points better than our own. 
And it is not necessary to tell Carry of every one who enters this 
house, which is so much out of her way.” 

“ My poor child — my poor child ! ” the mother said, wringing her 
hands. “ She divined this. She had a fear of something. She 
thought John Erskine might invite him. Oh, you need not suppose 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


123 


this was ever a subject of conversation between us ! — but it seems 
that Mr. Torrance suspected John Erskine himself to be the man. 
Edith surprised them in the midst of a painful scene on this subject, 
and then Carry told him of her terror lest John should invite — she 
did not say whom. It was not necessary between us to name any 
names. 

What did Torrance know about ‘ the man ? ' as you say ; what 
had he to do with it ? You women are past bearing. This was 
some of your confidences, I suppose.” 

It was Carry’s own communication to the man who is her hus- 
band. She thought it her duty, poor, poor child I — and now, is it I 
that am to be made the instrument of farther torture ? ” Lady Lin- 
dores cried. 

‘‘ The instrument of — fiddle-sticks ! This is really not a subject 
for heroics,” said her husband, fretfully. I ask you to receive as 
an acquaintance merely — no intimacy required of you — a man 
against whom I know nothing. These absurd passages you refer to 
I had no knowledge of. It was idiotic ; but fortunately it is all over, 
and no harm done. For Carry’s sake even, that nobody may be 
able to say that there was any embarrassment on her account, it 
seems to me your duty to receive him — especially as his coming in- 
volves Millefleurs.” 

What do I care for that boy ? What do you want with that 
boy ? ” Lady Lindores cried. She did not show her usual desire to 
please and soothe him, but spoke sharply, with an impatience she 
could not control. 

Whatever my reason may be, I hope I have a right to invite 
Millefleurs if I please,” said the earl, with a cloudy smile, and his 
companion with him, whoever he may be.” 

Lady Lindores made no reply, nor was there anything farther 
said between them on the subject. The intimation, however, almost 
overwhelmed the woman, who in these last years had learned to con- 
template her husband in so different a light. Enough has been said 
about the tragical unworthiness which tears asunder those who are 
most closely bound together, and kills love, as people say, by killing 
respect. To kill love is terrible, but yet it is an emancipation in its 
way ; and no man or woman can suffer for the unworthiness of one 
whom he or she has ceased to love, with anything approaching the 
pain which we feel when those who never can cease to be dear to us 
fall into evil. And love is so fatally robust, and can bear so many 
attacks ! 

Lady Lindores, who divined her husband’s motives, and the un- 
scrupulous adherence to them through thick and thin which would 
recoil from nothing, suffered from that and every other discovery 
that he was not what she had thought him, with bitter pangs, from 
which she would have been free had he ceased to be the first object 
of her affections. But that he could never cease to be ; and his 
faults tore her as with red-hot pincers. She could not bear to think 
of it, and yet was obliged to think of it, unable to forget it. That he 
should not shrink from the embarrassment and pain of renewing an 


124 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


acquaintance so- broken up, when it happened to appear to him use- 
ful for his own ends, was more to her than even the pain she would 
feel in herself receiving the man who might have been Carry’s hus- 
band — whom Carry had, as people say, jilted in order to marry a 
richer rival. How could she look him in the face, knowing this ? 
How could she talk to him without allusion to the past ? But even 
bad as this was, it was moro heart-rending still to think why it was 
that he was invited. She had to explain it to Edith, too, who was 
thunder-struck. 

Edward 1 you don’t mean Edward, mamma ? ” 

Yes, my darling, I mean Edward, no one else. He must not 
be Edward now, but Mr. Beaufort, to you and me. Your father was 
obliged to ask him, for he was with Lord Millefleurs.” 

But what does he want with Lord Millefleurs ? I would rather 
have had nobody in the house till we go home than ask Edward. 
And what, oh what will you say to Carry, mamma ? ” 

‘‘We must say nothing,” the mother cried, with a quivering lip. 
“ It must not be breathed to' her. Thank Heaven, we have no old 
servants ! At all costs. Carry must not know.” 

“ I thought you said, mamma, that there never was such a thing 
as a secret- — that everything was known ? ” 

“ And so I did,” cried Lady Lindores, distracted. “ Why do you 
remind me of what I have said ? It is not as if 1 could help it. We 
must stand firm, and get through it as well as we can, and think as 
little as we can of what may follow. There is no other way.” 

This was how Lady Lindores bore the brunt of her child’s in- 
quiries. 

As for Lord Rintoul, he declared that he understood his father 
perfectly. “ If Beaufort were left out he’d fill Millefleurs’s mind 
with all sorts of prejudices. I’d rather not meet the fellow myself ; 
but, as it can’t be helped, it must be done, I suppose,” he said. 

“ He will never say anything, that is. certain. And what can 
that boy’s opinion be to us ? ” said Lady Lindores. 

Her son stared at her a for moment open-eyed. “ Mamma, you 
are the most wonderful woman I ever knew,” he said. “ If you don’t 
mean it, it’s awfully clever ; and if you do mean it, you are such an 
innocent as never was seen. Why, don’t you know that everybody 
is after Millefleurs ? He is the great match of the season. I wish I 
thought Edith had a chance.” 

Lady Lindores covered her face with her hands, hating the very 
light. Her boy, too ! They pursued their ignoble way side by side 
with her, scarcely believing that it was possible she did not see and 
share their meaning, and in her heart approve of all their efforts. 

“ What is wrong now ? ” said Rintoul. “ I declare I never know 
what to say. Sometimes you take things quite easily. Sometimes 
you will flare up at nothing at all.” 

“Do you think it is nothing at all that your sister and I should 
be brought into what you yourselves call a husband-hunt ? ” cried Lady 
Lindores. “ Have you not told me of a dozen women who are try- 
ing to catch this man and that ? Don’t you think it is ignominious 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


125 


to expose, us to the same reproach ? Perhaps they are just as inno- 
cent of it as I.” 

‘‘ Oh, trust them for that,” said Rintoul, with a laugh. Of 
course it is said of everybody. It will be said of you just the 
same; we can’t help that. But surely you can see yourself— even 
you C2i\\ stQ — that when a fellow like Millefleurs actually puts him- 
self put of the way to come after a girl like Edith— — ” 

Robin ! ” cried his mother (a little acces of passion seized her). 

Do you think Edith — Edith, your sister — is not worth a hundred 
boys like this Millefleurs ? What do’ you mean by coming out of his 
way ? Is it the fashion now that girfs like Edith should put them- 
selves at the disposal of a little jackanapes— a bit of a boy — a ” 

Don’t lose your temper, mamma,” said the young man, with a 
laugh. But now you’ve had, it out,” said this wise son, ‘‘'only just 
be reasonably rand think a moment. Millefleurs is a great catch. 
ThereS not such a big fishrtp be, landed anywhere ; and Edith is no 
better than a hundred others. Do hear a fellaw out. She’s, very pretty 
and nice, and all that ; but there’s heaps of pretty, nice girls — and 
the prettier they- ary, and the nicer they are, the less they have a 
penny to bless themselves withy” ho added, in a regretful parenthe- 
sis. “ There’s -a hundred of them, and there’s only one of him. Of 
course he knows that well enough. Of course he knows it’s a great 
thing when he lets a girl sec that he admires her and if her people 
are, such fools as to let him slip through their fingers for want of a 
little trouble, why then they deserve to lose their chance — and that’s 
all I can say,” Rintopl said. . 

Once more Lady Lindores was silenced. What was the use of 
saying anything ? Indignation-was out of place, or anything that 
she could say of love profaned, and niarriage desecrated. To speak 
of the only foundation of a true union to this world-instructed boy— 
what would be the use of it ? She swallowed down as best she could 
the bitterness, the pain, the disappointment and contempt, which it 
is anguish to feel in such a case. After awhile she said, with a smile, 
commanding herself; “ And you, Robin, who are so clever as to know 
all this, are you top a.catch, my poor boy? are you pursued by 
mothers, and competed for by girls ?— not, of course, to the same 
extent as Lord Millefleurs — I recognize the difference ; but some- 
thing, I suppose, in the same way.” 

“ Well, ’’ .said Rintoul, caressing his mustache, “ not to the same 
extent, as you say, and not in the same way, perhaps. I’m nobody, 
of course, when Millefleurs is there ; but still, you know, when 
there’s no Millefleurs on the horizon— why, one has one’s value, 
mother. It’s an old title, for one thing, and Scotch estates, which 
people think better than they are, perhaps. They don’t throw 
heiresses at my head ; but still, you know, in a general way ” 

As he sat stroking that mustache, which was not very mature 
yet, but rather young and scanty for its age, with a little smile of 
subdued vanity about his mouth, and a careless air of making light 
of his advantages, what woman could have helped laughing ? But 
when a mother laughs at her boy the ridicule hurts more than it 


126 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


amuses her. I see/’ she said. ‘‘Then don’t you think, Robin, 
you who are so clear-sighted, that this young man will see through 
our attentions, if we pay him attention, and laugh at our efforts to — 
catch him (that’s the word, is it ?j as much as you do yourself? ” 

“All right,” said Rintoul ; “so he will, of course; but what 
does that matter when a fellow takes a fancy into his head ? Of 
course he knows you will want to catch him if you can — that stands 
to reason — everybody wants to catch him ; but if he likes Edith he 
will never mind that — if he likes Edith ” 

“ Robin, hold your tongue ! ” cried his mother, almost violently. 
She felt that she could have boxed his ears in the heat of her dis- 
pleasure. “ I will not hear your sister’s name bandied about so. 
You disgust me — you horrify me — you make me ill to hear you ! 
My son ! and you venture to speak of your sister so ! ” 

Rintoul, arrested in his speech, stared for a moment, open- 
mouthed ; and then he shook his head, with a look of impatient tol- 
eration, and uttered a weary sigh. “ If you will not hear reason, of 
course it’s in vain my arguing with you,” he said. 

These several encounters, and the heavy thought of what might 
be to come soon, took away all the gloss of pleasure that had been 
upon Lady Lindores’s first entrance into society. She thought, in- 
deed, there had never been any pleasure at all in it ; but this was an 
unintentional self-deception. She thought that Carry’s pale image 
had come between her and every lighter emotion. She did not her- 
self know how natural she was — her mood changing, her heart rising 
in spite of herself, a bright day, a pleasant company, the conscious- 
ness of being approved and even admired, giving her some mo- 
ments of gratification in spite of all ; but after these discussions she 
was so twisted and turned the wrong way, so irritated and disen- 
chanted by her husband and son, that she felt herself sick and 
disgusted with London and all the world. 

If she could but get home ! But yet at home there was poor Car- 
ry, who would ask after everything, and from whom it would be so 
difficult to conceal the re-appearance of her old lover. If she had 
but wings like a dove ! But oh, whither to go to be at rest? One 
must be alone, and free of all loves and relationships, to hope for 
that anywhere by flight. And what was before her was appalling to 
her : to meet the man whom she had thought of as her son, to keep 
a calm countenance, and talk to him as if no different kind of inter- 
course had ever been between them — to avoid all confidence, all 
cpanchements ^ and to keep him at the safe distance of acquaintance- 
ship : how was she to do it ? She said to herself that she did not 
know how to look him in the face, he who had been so deeply 
wronged. And then she began to hope that he, full of delicacy and 
fine feeling as he used to be, would see how impossible it was that 
they should meet, and would refuse to come. This hope kept her 
up till the last moment. 

When the evening came it was with a quivering emotion which 
she could scarcely restrain that she waited to receive her guests, 
hoping more strenuously every moment, and trying to persuade her- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


127 


self that Beaufort would not come. He had accepted the invitation ; 
but what was that ? He would accept, no doubt, in order to show 
them that he had got over it — that he bore no malice — and then he 
would send his excuses. Her eyes were feverish with eagerness and 
suspense when the door opened. She could not hear the names an- 
nounced for the beating of her heart in her ears ; but it was only 
when she saw against the light the shadow of a figure not to be for- 
gotten, and heard the doors open and shut, that she realized the fact 
that he had really presented himself. Then it seemed to Lady Lin- 
dores that all her pulses’stood still, and that an appalling stillness 
instead of their loud flutter of beating was in her ears and in the 
world. He had really come ! She became conscious of her hus- 
band’s voice speaking to her, and the sound of his name, and the 
touch of his hand, and then she regained her composure desperately, 
by such an effort as it seemed to her she had never made before. 
For to faint, or to call attention to herself in any way, was what 
must not be done. And by-and-by tSie moment was over, and the 
party were all seated at table, eating and drinking, and talking com- 
monplaces. When Lady Lindores looked round the table and saw 
Beaufort’s face among the other faces, she seemed to herself to be in 
a dream. The only other face of which she was conscious was that 
of Edith, perfectly colorless, and full of inquiry and emotion ; and 
at the other end of the table her husband, throwing a threatening, 
terrified look across the flowers and the lights, and all the prettiness- 
es of the table. These three she seemed to see, and no more. 

But Lord Millefleurs by her side was full of pleasant chatter and 
cheerful, boyish confidence, and demanded her attention. He was 
aware how important he was ; and it never occurred to him that 
Beaufort, who was an excellent fellow, but nobody in particular, 
could distract the attention of those who surrounded him from him- 
self. Millefleurs sat between Lady Lindores and Edith. It was a 
position that was his due. 

I am so sorry you are not well,” he^said. The fact is, it is 
L-ondon, Lady Lindores. I know your complaint, for it is mine too. 
Was there ever anything so irrational as to carry on this treadmill as 
we all do — you out of a wholesome country life, no doubt, and I out 
of a wandering existence, always in the open air, always in motion ? 
What do we do it for? Lady Edith, tell me, what do we do it for ? 
— I am asking everybody. Half of it would be very well, you know, 
but the whole of it is purgatory. I am sure that is your opinion. Is 
it merely fashion, or is it something in our nature which requires ex- 
travagance in all we do ” 

‘‘ There is not much extravagance in what we do habitually,” said 
Lady Lindores, which perhaps makes this outbreak of activity less 
alarming to us. It is a change ; and as for Edith, this is virtually 
her first season ” 

I thought it was your first season,” cried the little marquis. “ I 
knew it must be so.” This he said with decision, as if in triumph 
over some adversary. There is a look which one is never deceived 
^ in. I have seen all my sisters come out, so I am quite an authority. 


128 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


They get to look at things quite in another way ; they get so know- 
ing, as bad — as I am myself,” the youth added in perfect good faith, 
with a serious look upon his infantile countenance, and a lisping utter- 
ance which gave point to the speech. Lord Millefleurs, though he 
did not need to study appearances, was yet aware of the piquancy of 
the contrast between his round, childlike countenance and the ex- 
perience of his talk. 

I should not have thought you were so bad,” said Edith, be- 
guiled into smiling. I think you look as if you were in your first 
season too ” 

Oh, bad — Bohemian, a waif and a stray,” said Millefleurs ; you 
cannot think what an abandoned little person I was till Beaufort took 
me in hand. You knew Beaufort, abroad somewhere ! So he tells me. 
How lucky for him to be able to renew such an acquaintance 1 I 
need not tell you what a fine fellow he is — he has made me quite a 
reformed character. Do not laugh. Lady Edith ; you hurt my feel- 
ings. You would not laugh if I were a coal-heaver addressing a 
meeting and telling how wicked I had been.” 

And have you really been so wicked? You do not look so,” 
said Edith, who, amused in spite of herself, began to get used to the 
grave countenance of Beaufort, seated on the other side of the table. 
Both the ladies were grateful to Millefleurs, who chattered on, and 
gave them time to recover themselves. 

‘‘ No,” he said, that is what makes it so funny, they all tell me. 
I am a wolf in sheep’s clothing ; at least I was — I was, until Beaufort 
took me in hand. At present I am good, as good as gold. I get up 
early, and go to bed — when I can. I go out to three parties every 
night, and stand about at everybody’s receptions. I even pay calls 
in the morning. I shall go to a levee soon — I know I shall,” he said, 
in an accent of deep conviction. Can you think of anything more 
virtuous than that ? ” 

And what has your Bohemianism consisted in. Lord Mille- 
fleurs ? ” 

Good heavens ! ” said the self-accused, do you venture to ask 
me. Lady Edith ? — everything that is dreadful. For months I never 
wrote a letter, for months I never had a penny. It was the best fun 
in the world. The sting of being poor is when you can’t help it. I 
believe, for my part, that the most luxurious condition in this world 
is when you know you can be well off at any moment, and yet are 
half starving. No, I never was half starving. I worked with these 
hands ; ” and he held out a pair of plump, delicate, pink-tinged 
hands, not without a little vanity. To feel that it’s quite a chance 
whether you have ever any dinner again, to be altogether uncertain 
how you’re to get shelter for the night — and yet to be quite sure that 
nothing dreadful can happen to you, that at the worst you can al- 
ways ‘ draw a bugle from your side,’ and be surrounded by ^ five- 
and-thirty belted knights ’ — I assure you it is the most delightful 
excitement in the world.” 

It was impossible to resist this baby-faced and lisping adventurer. 
The mother and daughter both yielded to his fascinations. The con- 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


129 


versation became more and more animated and amusing. At the 
other end of the table they were not by any means so cheerful ; but 
Lord Lindores beheld with a satisfaction far more solid than any 
sort of amusement the result of his experiment. Edith, who had 
been pale and distraite^ doing herself no sort of justice, when they 
sat down at table, had roused up, and was now bright and respon- 
sive, interested in all that was being said to her. And Millefleurs, 
At was evident, was enjoying himself thoroughly. Two such women 
giving their full attention to him, listening to all his adventures — 
which were neither few nor small — was enough to raise him to the 
height of satisfaction. Lord Lindores talked very rationally and 
agreeably to the lady next him, but it was with an effort that he 
caught her not very brilliant remarks, so much interested was he in 
what was going on at the other end of the room. As for Rintoul, he 
gave himself up to his dinner. Things were going as well as possi- 
ble, he thought ; and though Millefleurs was a little Bohemian, he 
was the heir of a duke, and could do no wrong. 

It was thus that Lady Lindores was beguiled almost to forget the 
other guest at the table, whose coming had affected her so deeply. 
Her interest was easily excited, and the little marquis was delightful. 
And it was not till she had returned to the comparative quiet of the 
drawing-room that the recollection of Beaufort came back to her. 
Much of the danger seemed over. It would be over altogether in 
another hour, and the tremor in her mind was not so all-pervading 
as when she first saw his familiar face approaching. But she was 
not to get over her ordeal so easily. When the gentlemen came up- 
stairs Beaufort came at once toward her. He stood in front of her 
for a moment, as if claiming his right to be heard, shutting every- 
body else out. She felt a sort of fascination in his gaze, and could 
make no attempt to begin any conversation. Her tremor returned : 
she looked up wistfully at him without anything to say, clasping and 
unclasping in unspoken appeal her unsteady hands. 

It is a long time since we have met,” he said at length. 

Yes — it is a long time, Mr. Beaufort.” 

And many things have happened since that time.” 

She raised her clasped hands a little from her lap in mute en- 
treaty, and made no other reply ; but it did not occur to her — what 
was the case — that he was quite as much excited as she was, and 
did not notice her agitation, being so fully occupied with his own. 

I hope — that all of your family are — well : and happy. Lady 
Lindores.” 

‘‘ Very well. Mr. -Beaufort, I know there is much that must have 
seemed strange and cruel to you. How can I speak of it now ? It 
is impossible to explain.” 

He paused a little, replying nothing. Then he said, suddenly, 
If you would let me come and talk to you — talk of everything — I 
should feel it a great kindness — when I could see you alone.” 

She put out her hands now in sudden alarm and deprecation. 
Mr. Beaufort, it could do no good, it would be very painful. Do 
6 * 


130 


THE LADIES LTNDOEES. 


not ask me to do it. For me it would be a terrible ordeal — and no 
advantage to you.’^ 

‘‘ I think it would be an advantage,” he said, gently. 

Again she clasped her hands, imploring forbearance. I do 
not wish to try to justify — but after so long a time — is it right, is it 
kind, do you think, to press me so ? ” 

Let me come and talk to you,” he said ; you need not fear 
my reproaches. May not I know how it was, how it came about ? 
I will not complain. How can I cease to be interested, if that were 
all ? Let me come and talk to you — let me know how it was.” 

Lady Lindores did not know what to answer or how to hide her 
emotion. She was trying to form an evasive answer with lips that 
faltered, when suddenly her husband came to her relief. 

I should not have expected you to have had part in adventures 
such as I hear Millefleurs relating. Where was he really when you 
picked him up ? ” said Lord Lindores, 


♦ CHAPTER XV. 

Lord Millefleurs had given his family a great deal of trouble 
— not in the old-fashioned way of youthful folly or dissipation, which 
is too well known in every age, the beaten road upon which young 
men tread down the hearts of their progenitors, and their own best 
hopes, in all the wantonness of short-sighted self-indulgence. The 
heir of the house of Lavender had gone wrong in an entirely new- 
fashioned and nineteenth-century way. He was devoured by curi- 
osity, not of the modes of pleasure, but about those other ways of 
living which the sons of dukes in general have no knowledge of. He 
got tired of being a duke’s son, and it seemed to him that life lay 
outside the range of those happy valleys in which he was born. He 
had gone to America, that home of all kinds of freedom, and there 
had disappeared from the ken of ducal circles. He had not even 
Avritten home, which was the inexcusable part of it, but had sunk 
out of sight, coming to the surface, as it were, only once or twice 
in a couple of years, when a sudden draft upon his banker revealed- 
him to his anxious family, whose efforts to trace him during thisj 
time were manifold, but always unsuccessful. 

It was Beaufort who had been the means at last of restoring the 
virtuous prodigal, who in the meantime had been occupied, not by 
any vicious tastes or dangerous liaisons^ but by the most entirely 
innocent, if eccentric, experiments in living. Beaufort found him, 
but not before the young man was willing to be found — a fact which, 
however, the anxious relations did not take into account, as detract- 
ing from the merit of the man whom they described as Millefleurs’s 
deliverer, his better genius, and by many other flattering descrip- 
tions. In reality, Millefleurs had set out on his way home, moved 


! 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


131 


thereto by the energetic representations of a strong-minded, middle- 
aged maiden in Connecticut or California (how can an historian 
without data particularize ?), who told him that a man was no gen- 
tleman who kept the women of his family in ignorance of his move- 
ments, and exposed them to all the tortures of anxiety. This puz- 
zled the scientific adventurer. He had found out that daily work 
(which amused him very much) was not at all incompatible with the 
character of a gentleman ; but he felt himself pulled up in his 
career when this new view of the subject was presented to him. 

After a little thought, he decided that Miss Srrih^ F was right. 

And he took off his working-clothes, and put on the livery of civil- 
ization, and found Beaufort, who had attacked the Continent bravely 
but vaguely in search of him, on his way. 

Millefleurs was not proud. He let himself be brought home as 
if it was all Beaufort’s doing, and made his peace with everybody. 
The consequence was that the illustrious house of Lavender was 
ready to do anything in the world for that excellent Mr. Beaufort, 
who had fished their heir out of troubles unknown; and in respect 
to that heir himself, were bending all their faculties to the task of 
getting him married, and so put out of harm’s way. It was a new 
sphere for the Tnental vivacity and curiosity of Millefleurs. He 
devoted himself to a study of the young ladies of the highest civili- 
zation, just as he had devoted himself to the life of the dock-yards 
and the back-woods. (Probably I should say to the mines and the 
cattle-ranches ; but the reader who knows the fashion will here sup- 
ply the appropriate phrase.) He found the studycurious, and not 
at all unpleasant, and so went about scattering wild hopes about 
him wherever he moved. Was anything else possible ? 

If the young ladies in our Northern county had been (inevitably) 
fluttered and excited when Pat Torrance fixed his big light eyes 
upon them, knowing the value of him as, so to speak, an appoint- 
ment, a post for life which would remove all anxiety about their 
future comfort from their own minds and those of their parents, how 
much more when the Marquis of Millefleurs went hopping about the 
drawing-rooms, carrying on his researches in a far more genial and 
agreeable manner than Pat Torrance was capable of doing? And 
it was quite certain that nobody would ever be unhappy with Mille- 
fleurs. He was always cheerful, always considerate, ready to do 
anything for anybody. He was more like a daughter than a son, 
the duchess declared, with tears in her eyes — foreseeing what she 
wanted, watching over her as nobody had ever done before: although 
it was, no doubt, very wrong — oh, very wrong — to almost break her 
heart, leaving her two years without a letter ; but he would not do 
so to his 'Wife. Thus the — we will not say candidates, rather 
nominees — possible occupants of the delightful and every way 
desirable post of Marchioness of Millefleurs had every sort of induce- 
ment to “go in” for it, and scarcely any drawback at all. 

The drawback was not worth speaking of — it was the most super- 
ficial of objections. This enterprising, amusing, good-tempered, 
quick-witted, accomplished, and lovable hero was, as the girls said, 


- : 



V 




132 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


the funniest little man that had ever been seen. He was shorter 
than most of the young ladies to whom he made himself so agreeable. 
He was plump and round, a succession of curves and gently billow- 
ing outlines ; his eyes were like little black beads, though they were 
sparkling with life and animation ; he had a round face like a boy of 
ten, with nice little puffy, rosy cheeks, and a lisp which completed 
the infantile effect of his appearance generally. A little air of the 
most agreeable self-satisfaction hung about him — what the vulgar 
and detractors generally call vanity and self-conceit, but which, 
indeed, was nothing of the kind, being only that confidence of pleas- 
ing which his natural temper gave him, in the first place, and his 
position confirmed. For how could he be ignorant that to be Mar- 
quis of Millefleurs was enough to make any man charming ? It 
was to escape this that he had fled from society, and been called 
Tommy by the American laborers, with whom he was just as popu- 
lar as in Mayfair. It had been intended to keep this little gentle- 
man in the background of this narrative as really a very secondary 
person in it ; but, with his usual determination to be in the front of 
everything, he has pushed himself forward against the historian’s 
will. ^ 

Having thus yielded to his natural tendency to show himself, 
we may proceed to say what we had intended without this preamble, 
that the peculiarity of Millefleurs’s appearance took all seriousness 
from the fact of his rapidly increasing intimacy with them, in the 
foolish and inexperienced eyes not only of Edith but of her mother. 
Lady Lindores, though she had been alarmed and startled by the 
importance attached to his first visit, and the penalty paid for it, 
could not bring herself to regard him seriously. He seemed to her 
a boy, notwithstanding that the peerage was produced to- her and 
dates set before her eyes — and she shut her eyes altogether to any 
danger that might be involved in the frequency of his visits. She 
was very glad to see him whenever he came. Never was there a 
more delightful household retainer; his friendliness and affectionate- 
ness and half-feminine interest in all their concerns, great and small, 
made him delightful to the women, who wanted no more of him. 
He was like a boy at home from school in this friendly house, where 
no incense was burnt before him, and ran on their commissions, and 
took an interest in their work, and gave his opinion about their 
dress, with all the freedom of long acquaintance ; and it naturally 
added in no small degree to the brilliancy of their appearance out-of- 
doors, and to the effect they produced, that such an attendant 
should be constantly in their train. 

Lady Lindores Avas not insensible to this gratification ; and had 
Millefleurs looked more grown up and less like a friend’s son con- 
fided to her for the holidays, it is very likely that the chance of see- 
ing her child elevated to the highest level of the social ladder would 
have been too much for her also, and turned her head a little. But 
whenever the idea glanced across her mind, as it was bound to do 
sometimes, if from nothing more than the discourses of Rintoul, she 
had but to look at the rounded outlines of her little hero, and all 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


133 


these visions dispersed in a laugh. To imagine him a bridegroom, 
not to say Edith’s bridegroom, affected her with a sense of the ludic- 
rous which it was beyond her power to restrain. 

But this was extremely foolish, as everybody will perceive ; and 
it was with a very different eye that Lord Lindores contemplated the 
frequent presence of this above-all-competitors-desirable young 
man. It was not only that he was a duke’s son, though that in it- 
self was much, but he was the son of a duke who was a cabinet min- 
ister, and eminently qualified to help on the scheme of ambition 
which inspired the Scotch earl. His Grace knew the gain it would 
be to replace the Tory who had sat for Dee-and-Donshire for years 
with an out-and-out partisan of the existing Government ; and there 
could be little doubt that he would appreciate the expediency of in- 
creasing the importance of any family to which his own should be- 
come allied. And then the prospects which would open before Edith 
were such as to dazzle any beholder. If her father had ever felt that 
he was to blame in respect to his elder daughter, here was something 
which surely would make amends for all. 

Millefleurs was no rustic bully, no compound of a navvy and a 
squire, but the quintessence of English gentlemanhood — good- 
hearted, clever in his way, universally popular, the sort of man 
whom, irrespective of all worldly advantages, a father would be glad 
to trust his child’s happiness to. The idea that any reasonable ob- 
jection could be grounded upon his appearance would have irri- 
tated Lord Lindores beyond all self-control. His appearance I he 
was not a hunchback, nor deaf, nor dumb, nor blind. Short of that, 
what on earth did it matter how a man looked? And no doubt 
Lord Lindores was in the right. But in reality that which put all 
idea of him as a lover out of the mind of Lady Lindores and Edith 
was not any objection to his appearance, but the mere fact of his 
appearance — his boyish looks, his contour, his aspect of almost 
childhood. 

As has been said, when the suggestion was presented to her mind 
that Millefleurs might have ^‘intentions” in respect to Edith, Lady 
Lindores the next time she saw him laughed. “ What is the joke ? ” 
he had said to her half a dozen times ; and she had answered, “ There 
is no joke, only a ludicrous suggestion.” “ About me, perhaps,” he 
said once, reducing her to great embarrassment. But she managed 
to elude his observation ; and to Edith, fortunately, the idea never 
occurred at all. She declared herself to be very fond of him ; she 
said there was no one so nice ; she brightened when he came in, and 
listened to his chatter with unfailing pleasure. She said there was 
nobody she would miss so much when she went home. When he 
complained that he had never been in Scotland she said, “You must 
come to Lindores.” It was she, indeed, who gave the invitation. 
The earl, who had not quite ventured upon this strong step, was 
present and heard her say it, and opened his eyes wide in admira- 
tion. What did it mean ? Was it that these two had engaged them- 
selves secretly without saying anything to father or mother ? or did 
it mean nothing at all — the mere foolishness of a girl who did not 


134 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


care for, nay, did not even think for a moment, what people would 
say ? 

For the brief little weeks of the season flitted quickly away, and 
the date fixed for their departure drew near rapidly. By this time 
Millefleurs had got to be exceedingly intimate with the family. He 
went and came almost as he pleased, sometimes offering himself, 
sometimes coming into luncheon without that ceremony — always 
with something to do for them, or something to say to them, which 
linked one day to another. This was much, but it was not all that 
was w^anted. Rintoul, looking on with eyes enlightened by that knowl- 
edge he had acquired of what the fellows would say,” did not feel 
half satisfied. He was the anxious member of the party. Even Lord 
Lindores, whose friends at the clubs discussed such matters less, 
perhaps, than the young men, and whose interests were more politi- 
cal, was not so alive to all the risks and all the changes of opinion as 
was Rintoul. He was nervous above measure about this business of 
Edith’s. He even took his mother to task about it during the last 
week of their stay in town. Isn’t that fellow coming to the point ? ” 
he said 

What fellow, and what point ?” said Lady Lindores. It must 
be acknowledged that if ever a young man anxious for the true in- 
terests of his family was tried by the ignorance and stupidity — not 
to say callousness~of his relations, Rintoul was that man. 

Look here, mother,” he said, exasperated; ^‘just think for a 
moment what people will say, and ask yourself how you will like 
it. They will say Millefleurs has been amusing himself all this time, 
and never meant anything. I make no doubt that they say it already. 
He has been amusing himself — exposing her to all sorts of remarks ; 
and then the end will come, and he will leave plante laT 

^‘Rintoul,” said his mother, reddening with anger, ‘‘this one 
idea of yours makes you absurd. Who is it that has it in his power 
to leave planil Id f To think that I should be forced to use 

such words I If you mean to make me uncomfortable about that 
boy ” 

“ He is no more a boy than I am, mother. I warned you of that. 
He knows very well what he is about. He has had the pleasure of 
your society, and he has enjoyed it all and amused himself very 
much But he doesn’t mean to commit himself. Do you think I 
don’t know what people say ? I don’t mean that it is Edith’s fault, 
or even your fault, mother ; only, some women knowhow to manage. 
It is a thing that never could happen with some people. You will 
see, unless you exert yourself, that the last day will come, and you 
will be just where you were. I donT know whether staying a week 
or two longer would do any good,” he added, ruefully. “ If there is 
the chance that it might bring him to the point, there is also the 
chance that people would divine your motive, and say that was why 
you were staying on. Don’t you think you could put a little steam 
on, when the result is so important, and bring him to the point ? ’ 

“ Steam on ! Do you mean to insult me, Rintoul ? ” his mother 
cried. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


135 


But this was too much for the young man, who felt himself to be 
the only one of the family to whom the true position of affairs was 
apparent. ‘‘ If you cannot understand me, mother, I can’t say any- 
thing more,” he said, feeling as if he could almost have cried over 
her callousness. Why was it that nobody but he would see how seri- 
ous the situation was ? 

All this time, however, while Millefleurs was frequenting the 
house almost daily, Lady Lindores's perception had been partly con- 
fused by the effort it cost her to avoid being drawn into what she felt 
must be an unnecessary confidential disclosure to Beaufort of the 
history of the family since they last met. Beaufort did not insist 
upon accompanying his charge — for such, more or less, Millefleurs 
was, his family being too much alarmed lest he should disappear 
again, to leave him without this species of surveillance, which the 
good-natured young fellow allowed to be perfectly natural, and 
neither resisted nor resented ; but he came sometimes, and he 
never relinquished his appeal to Lady Lindores. He was not posing 
in any attitude of a heart-broken lover. Even to her he expressed 
no despair. He took his life gravely, but not without cheerfulness, 
and had, she felt, almost with a little, pique, got over it, and been 
able to put Carry out of his life. But he wanted to know, that 
seemed all that was left of the old romance. He wanted to be told 
how it had happened — how his love had been lost to him. It did not 
seem to be resentment or indignation that moved him, but a serious 
kind of interest And, strangely enough, it seemed to Lady Lindores 
that he did not want to avoid her, or keep out of hearing of the name 
of the girl who had forsaken him. He seemed to like herself. Carry’s 
mother, as well as ever, and to regard Edith with the same elder- 
brotherly air which had pleased her so much in the old days. 

Between the inquiring countenance which seemed without ceas- 
ing to ask an explanation from her and the prattle of Millefleurs, 
which ran on in a pleasant stream, and to which it seemed so ridicu- 
lous to attach any serious meaning. Lady Lindores was kept in a 
perplexity and harassment of mind which took away altogether her 
pleasure in society at the end of their stay in London. After her 
impatient rejection of Rintoul’s counsels she began to consider them, 
as was natural ; and much as all the particulars of the chasse-aux- 
7naris disgusted her, she came at length, against her will, to recog- 
nize that there was sometl^ing in what he said. I have been 
imprudent, as usual,” she said to herself. Alas, that all the natural 
proceedings of life should be hampered by these rules of prudence ! 
— these perpetual previsions of what might happen — to which she 
felt it was impossible she could ever bow her spirit. But the idea 
that it would be said that a boy like Millefleurs had ‘‘amused him- 
self” with her daughter — that he had loved and ridden away — that 
Edith, her high-spirited, pure-minded girl, had been planie Id — 

broke over Lady Lindores like a wave of passionate feeling : the 
suggestion was intolerable and odious. This happened when Mille- 
fleurs was in the room with her, in full tide of talk, and entirely at 
his ease. The sudden sensation disclosed itself in a flush of color 


136 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


mounting in a moment to her very hair. Intolerable ! The thought 
was so odious that she started to her feet and walked to the open 
window, as if the change of position would throw it off— and also, 
suffocated as she felt by that sudden fiery breath, to get fresh air, 
lest she should, as she said, make an exhibition of herself. 

^‘You are ill. Lady Lindores ! ” cried Millefleurs. Those little 
beady eyes of his saw everything. He ran forward to support her 
(he was just up to her shoulder), putting forward a reclining-chair 
with one hand, picking up a bottle of eau-de-cologne with the other. 
He had all his wits about him. I am used to it. Sometimes my 
mother se trouve nial in the same way. It will pass over,” he said 
encouragingly to Edith, who, unused to anything of the kind, started 
up in alarm. Dear Lady Lindores, put yourself here.” 

‘‘ I am not ill,” she said, almost angrily. Pray do not make any 
— fuss. How rude I am 1 but there is nothing the matter with me, I 
assure you. The room is warm, that is all.” 

Millefleurs looked at her curiously. He put down the eau-de- 
cologne, and took his hand from the chair. For a moment he 
seemed about to speak, but then stood aside more serious than his 
wont. In terror lest he should have divined her thoughts. Lady Lin- 
dores returned to her seat, calming herself down with an effort, and 
made the best attempt she could to resume their easy conversation 
of the moment before. She was vexed beyond measure when 
Edith, a short time after, left the room to go and look for something 
which Millefleurs was anxious to see. He took instant advantage of 
the opportunity thus afforded him. Lady Lindores,” he said, with 
that serious air as of a candid child, going up to her, you are not 
in, but you are vexed and angry, and it is something about me.” 

‘‘ About you. Lord Millefleurs ! How could that be ? You have 
never given me the least occasion to be angry.” 

‘‘ That is why,” he said, gravely. ‘‘ I see it all. You have noth- 
ing to find fault with. I am quite innocent and harmless, yet I am 
in the way, and you do not know how to tell me so. For my part, I 
have been so happy here that I have forgotten all sorts of precau- 
tions. One does not think of precautions when one is happy. Dear 
Lady Lindores, you shall tell me exactly what I ought to do, and I 
will do it. I have all my life been guided by women. I have such 
faith in a lady’s instinct. I might be confused, perhaps, in my own 
case, but you will hit upon the right thing. Speak to me freely — I 
shall understand you at a word,” the droll little hero said. Now, 
Lady Lindores was in a strait as serious as she had ever experienced 
in her life ; but when she glanced up at him, and saw the gravity 
upon his baby face, his attitude of chubby attention, such a desire to 
laugh seized her, that it was all she could do by main force to keep 
her gravity. This insensibly relaxed the tension, and restored her to 
her usual self-command. Still there was no denying that the situa- 
tion was a very peculiar one, and his request for guidance the 
strangest possible. She answered hurriedly, in the confusion of her 
mingled feelings, 

1 don’t know what there is to do. Lord Millefleurs, or how I can 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


m 


advise you. A sudden want of breath — a consciousness all at once 
that it is a very warm morning — what can that have to do with you ? ” 

You will not tell me, then ? ” he said, with an air half disap- 
pointed, half imploring. 

There is nothing to tell. Here is Edith. For Heaven’s sake, 
not another word ! ” said Lady Lindores, in alarm. She did not per- 
ceive that she betrayed herself in this very anxiety that her daughter 
should suspect nothing. He looked at her very curiously once more, 
studying her face, her expression, even the nervousness of the hand 
with which she swept her dress out of the way. He was a young man 
full of experiences, knowing all the ways of women. How far she 
was sincere — how far this might be a little scheme, a device for his 
instruction, so that he might see what was expected of him without 
any self-betrayal on the lady’s part^was what he wanted to know. 
Had it been so, he would at once have understood his role. It is 
usual to say that simplicity and sincerity are to the worldly-bred 
much more difficult to understand than art ; but there is something 
still more difficult than these. Pure no-meaning puzzles more than 
wit.” Though Lady Lindores had far more meaning in her than 
nine-tenths of her contemporaries, she was in this one case abso- 
lutely incomprehensible from want of meaning. She had no more 
notion than a child what to do, or even what she wished to be done. 
If this little chubby fellow asked Edith to marry him, her mother 
believed that the girl would laugh in his face. There could be no 
question of Edith marrying him. But what then? Was Edith to 
be held up before the whole world (according to Rintoul’s version) 
as the plaything of this little marquis, as having failed to catch him, 
as pla7tte Id. She was in the most painful dilemma, not know- 

ing any more than a child how to get out of it. She gave him a look 
which was almost pathetic in its incompetency. Lady Lindores was 
full of intellect — she was what is called a very superior woman ; but 
nobody would have been more stupid, more absolutely without any 
power of invention in this crisis, which had never come within the 
range of her calculations, which she had not been able to foresee. 

And that same afternoon Beaufort came by himself, and was 
admitted, no one else being in the drawing-room — no one to shield 
the poor lady, who could not help remembering that this stranger 
was the man to whom she had once given a mother’s kiss, receiving 
him as a son. He did not forget it either. He held her hand when 
she gave it him, and sat down by her with an expression of satisfac- 
tion which she' was very far from sharing. At last I find you 
alone,” he said, with a sigh of content. Poor Lady Lindores had 
already been so greatly tried this morning, that she felt unable to 
keep up the strain. Why should she be forced to put on so many 
semblances ? 

‘‘ Mr. Beaufort,” she cried, I cannot pretend to be glad to see 
you alone. Cannot you understand ? You have been wronged — we 
have treated you badly — they say it is the injured person who is al- 
ways most ready to forgive ; but do not ask me to go into a matter 
which I have tried all these years to forget.” 


138 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


And yet,” he said, gently, I do not mean to reproach you, 
Lady Lindore's.” 

‘‘ That may be ; I do not know that have much occasion to re- 
proach me. You were not yourself, perhaps, so much in earnest. No 
— 1 mean no reproach either ; but you are a man of your century too, 
according to the usual slang. You don’t force events, or do what is 
impossible. Men used to do so in the old days.” 

He listened to her in silence, bowing his head two or three 
times. I accept your reproof,” he said, a faint color coming 
over his face. I am glad you have made it — it helps me to under- 
stand. Lady Lindores, there is something else I want to speak to 
you about. Lord Lindores has invited me, with Millefleurs, in Au- 
gust—^ — ” 

With Millefleurs in August ? Has he asked Lord Millefleurs 
in August ? ” Lady Lindores cried. 

This was a great blow to Beaufort’s self-opinion. He had thought, 
naturally, that the embarrassment of his appearance as a visitor 
would have overweighed everything else. He grew more red this 
time, with the irritated shame which follows a slight. 

‘‘ Certainly he has asked him. It is ridiculous that a young man 
so entirely able to take care of himself should have any one in 
charge of him ; but as the duke has implored me to keep his son 
company — Here is my situation. Lady Lindores. God knows I 
would not thrust myself where I might — where I should be — I mean, 
to cause the faintest embarrassment to — any one.” 

Mr. Beaufort,” cried Lady Lindores, do not come, cither of 
you ! — oh, never mind what I mean. What is the use of going over 
that old ground ? It would cause embarrassment — to me if to no 
one else. And Lord Millefleurs — what does he want at Lindores ? 
Let him stay away ; persuade him to stay away.” 

But that is settled without any power of interference on my 
part. Of course he thought you were aware. For myself, I am 
ready to give up my own prospects, to sacrifice anything — rather 
than give you a moment’s anxiety.” 

Lady Lindores gazed at him for a moment with wide-open eyes, 
like a creature at bay. Then she let her hands fall on her lap. ‘‘It 
is I that need to be guided what to do,” she said, with a sigh ; “ they 
are too many for me. Oh, Edward ! had we but remained poor and 
obscure, as we were when you knew us — ” She put out her hand 
instinctively, with a kind of involuntary appeal. He took it, going 
on his knees with that movement, equally involuntary, which deep 
emotion suggests, and put it to his lips. They were both overcome 
by a sudden flood of old sympathy, old communion. “ Has Carry 
forgotten me altogether — altogether? Is she happy? God bless 
her ! ” he said. 

It was in this attitude that Edith, coming in suddenly, surprised 
these two imprudent people. She gave a cry of amazement, and, 
Lady Lindores thought, reproach. “ Mother ! Edward ! ” The old 
name came to her lips, loo, in the shock. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


139 


Edith,” Lady Lindores cried, your father has invited him 
with Lord Millefleurs to Lindores.” 

But 1 will do nothing save as you advise,” said Beaufort, rising 
to his feet. 

Then the mother and daughter consulted each other with their 
eyes. Of course he will — not — ” Edith stopped and faltered. 
She had begun almost with passion ; but she was made to break off 
by the warning in her mother’s eyes. Lady Lindores, too, had gone 
through a shock and panic ; but now all the secondary elements 
came in — all those complications which take truth out of life. 


CHAPTER XVL 

The party at Tinto was increased by Dr. Sterling and his wife, 
which made six, instead of four, as the master of the house had in- 
tended. His meaning, so far as it was a meaning at all and not a 
mere impulse, was to get John Erskine by himself, and with skilful 
art to worm himself into the confidence of that open-hearted young 
man. Torrance had a great opinion of his own skill in this way. 
He thought he could find out from any man the inmost thoughts of 
his mind ; and John seemed an easy victim, a young fellow without 
suspicion, who might without difficulty be led into betraying himself. 
Torrance had been overawed by the presence of Edith, and forced 
into conviction when his wife appealed to her sister on the subject 
of John ; but he was without any confidence in the truth of others, 
and after a time he began to persuade himself that Lady Car’s denial 
was not final, and that probably he should find out from John himself 
something that would modify her tale. When he heard that his wife 
had added to the party he was furious. I never said I wanted 
more people asked,” he said. ‘Mf I had wanted people asked I 
should have let you know. What do I want with a country parson, 
or minister, or whatever you call him ? When I’m ill you can send 
for the minister. I’ve got nothing to say to him at present. It is 
for yourself, of course, you want him. When there’s nobody better, 
he does to try your arts on. Lady Car.” 

Yes,” said Lady Car, with a faint smile, I allow that I like 
to talk to him — for lack of a better, as you say.” Sometimes she 
had spirit enough to be what he called aggravating, and Torrance 
grew red with a sense of scorn implied. He was not stupid enough, 
seeing that he was so little clever. He knew so much as to be con- 
stantly conscious that he was below the mark. 

Confound it ! ” he said, if you were to talk to your husband, 
it would show more sense ; but, of course, that would not answer 
your purpose.” Wh^ it would not answer her purpose he had not 
any idea ; but it is not always necessary, especially in controversy, 
to know what you yourself mean, and Carry did not inquire. Some- 
times she was aggravating, but sometimes she showed the better part 


140 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


of valor and held her peace. That was always the wise way. And 
accordingly there were six people who sat down to the banquet at 
Tinto. It was truly a banquet, though the party was so small. The 
table was covered with plate, huge silver epergnes, and loads of old- 
fashioned metal — not old-fashioned, it must be recollected, in the 
right way, but in the wrong way — monstrosities of the age of William 
IV. or of the last George. Lady Caroline’s taste had been quite 
inoperative so far as these ornaments were concerned. Her husband 
knew she made light of them, and this usually influenced him in the 
long-run. But he knew also what they had cost, and would not yield 
a hair-breadth. The table groaned under them as on the greatest 
feast-days ; and Mrs. Sterling, if nobody else, was always deeply 
impressed. I tell the doctor it’s as good as reading a book upon 
the East to see that grand camel and the silver palm-trees,” this ex- 
cellent lady said. She thought it became a minister’s wife to show 
a special interest in the East. 

Well, it’s not often they’re seen in the east — of Scotland, Mrs. 
Stirling,” said Tinto, with his large laugh. He had made the joke 
before. ' 

Oh fie, Mr. Torrance ; ye must not be profane,” Mrs. Stirling 
said ; and they both laughed with a certain zest. Very few of Lady 
Car’s guests admired the palm-trees*; but Mrs. Stirling, by a blessed 
dispensation of Providence, was always capable of this effort. 

I hear they are not much in the way of art,” Torrance said — 
people are ill to please nowadays ; but they’re pure metal, and if 
they were only valued at so much an ounce ” 

You may well say they’re ill to please. Bless me, Mr. Tor- 
rance ! one of them would be a fortune — just a fortune at that rate! 
When my little Jeanie is of an age to be married you must lock up 
these fine things, or there’s no saying what I might be tempted to; 
but you never would miss one when there’s so many,” Mrs. Stirling 
said. It was a dispensation of Providence. The doctor himself 
devotedly wished he had his wife’s faculty of admiration, when, 
after keeping her host in good -humor all the evening, she withdrew 
with Lady Car, giving him a wanrning glance. All three of the 
ladies addressed warning glances to the gentlemen left behind. Even 
Nora, who had not spoken three words to John, and had, as she said 
almost spitefully to herself, nothing whatever to do with him, could 
not help warning him with her eyes to keep the peace. 

Now, this was the time which Torrance had looked forward to, 
when he should cross-examine the new-comer, and get to the rights 
of the story respecting John’s previous acquaintance with his wife. 
He was balked and he was angry, and all at once it became appar- 
ent to him that this was Lady Car’s design, and that she had done it 
to screen herself. Doctor, you like a good glass of wine,” he said ; 

all pai'sons do, whatever be the cut of the cloth. Here’s, some 
stuff that will soon lay you under the table— unless you’re seasoned 
like Erskine here, and me.” 

I must take care, then, to give that stuff a wide berth,” the 
doctor said, gravely, yet with a smile. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


141 


^‘Ay, ay, but you must drink fair. We’ll be having you take 
shelter with the ladies. I don’t mean to let Erskine off so easy. 
This is his first dinner in my house. It ought to have been a state 
dinner, you know — all the big-wigs in the county ; but Erskine and 
Lady Car are old friends. I think you knew the family intimately 
at — where was the place ?” 

I met Miss Lindores, as she was then, in Switzerland,” said 
John, curtly. It was to you that I was to apply. Dr. Stirling, for 
particulars about the asylum Lord Lindores is so much interested in.” 

And a most important work,” said Dr. Stirling. It is a strange 
thing to think of in a country so well gifted as this by Providence, 
and with so much intelligence, what a balance we have on the other 
side ! You’ll have noticed almost every village has a ‘ natural,’ as 
the people call them — a half-witted, innocent creature like Davie 
Gellatley in ‘ Waverley.’ ” 

“ What did you say was the name of the place ? ” said Torrance. 

I’m bent on making notes of all the places Lady Car’s been in. 
She's a poet, you know. Some time or other they will be wanted 
for her biography, don’t you see ? ” 

I have observed,” said John, answering Torrance only with a 
little bow — I have noticed already one or two. Could nothing be 
done for them ? ” 

But you don’t answer me,” said Torrance, and when I tell 
you my motive ! That’s my father-in-law’s last fad. What is he so 
anxious about the daft folk for. Dr. Stirling? Is it a fellow-feeling? ” 
He stopped to laugh, making the table ring. He was at me for 
my support, and to write to the convener. Not I ! I told him they 
had done well enough up to my time, and they would do well enough 
after my time. What are we to put ourselves about for ? Can you 
tell me that ? ” 

‘‘ It is a disgrace to the county,” said Dr. Stirling. No wonder 
the earl was horrified, that has seen things managed so differently. 
Mr. Erskine, if you will come and see me I will tell you all about it. 
Sir John stands out, just because the idea is new to him, not from 
any real objection — for he’s a good man and a charitable man at 
heart.” 

‘‘You don’t wonder at me, doctor,” said Torrance. “Do you 
think I’m not a good man or a charitable ? I’m standing out too. 
I’m saying, what should we put ourselves about for? It’s not us 
that makes them daft. And what’s done for the county up to our 
time may do now. Little Tam, he can see to that ; let him have 
the paying of it ; it is not an amusement I’m fond of ” 

“And yet, Mr. Torrance,” said the doctor — “and yet — you’ll 
excuse me — here’s what would almost build the place ” 

This was an exaggeration. It was founded upon his wife’s 7iatve 
admiration of the Tinto plate ; but it did not displease the proud 
owner of all those pounds of silver. He laughed. 

“You may take your word it will never build the place, nor any 
such place,” he said. “ No, doctor, that’s not my line — nor the 
earl’s either, trust me. If you think he would strip his table or emp- 


142 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


ty his purse for all the idiots in Scotland, you’re mistaken. You 
think it’s all benevolence and public spirit. Not a bit ! He means 
to run Rintoul for the county, and it’s popularity he’s wanting. 
There’s always wheels within wheels. Mr father-in-law thinks he’s 
a very clever man— and so he is, I suppose. They’re a clever fam- 
ily : but I can see through them, though they don’t think much of 
me.” 

Torrance had already consumed a good deal of wine. He had 
been crossed in his purpose, and his temper roused. His dark face 
was flushed, and his light eyes staring. Both his companions were 
men entirely out of sympathy with him, who were there because 
they could not help it, and who listened rather with angry shame 
that they should be parties to such discourse, than with any amiable 
desire to cover his shortcomings. They did not look at each other, 
but a slight uneasy movement on the part of both was as good as a 
mutual confidence, and both began to speak at once, with an anx- 
ious attempt to put an end to these unseemly revelations. 

What fine weather we’ve been having for the crops 1 ” said Dr. 
Stirling. And, I wish you’d tell me what flies you use about here. 
I have had no luck at all on the river,” cried John. 

But their host was on his mettle, and felt himself a match for 
them both. As for the weather. I’ve no land in my own hands — 
not such a fool ! and I don’t care a — that for the crops ! Flies ! you 
may have the finest in the world, but without sense you’ll make noth- 
ing of them. Come with me, and I’ll let you see how to make them 
bite. But as I was saying,” Torrance went on, elevating his voice, 
if you think his lordship is bent on the good of the county, you’re 
mistaken, I can tell you. He means to get the seat for Rintoul. And 
who’s Rintoul, to represent a county like this ? A boy, in the first 
place — not fledged yet ; what I call a fledging. And knows nothing 
about what we want. How should he ? He never was in the county 
in his life till four or five years ago. You would have thought a man 
like old Lindores, that has been about the world, would have had 
more sense. That’s just it ; a man knocks about these little foreign 
places, and he thinks he knows the world. Now, there’s me : I 
would not take the trouble of Parliament, not for any inducement. 
It’s no object to me. I prefer quiet and my own way. There’s noth- 
ing that any Ministry could give me, neither office nor rise in life. 
I’m content to be Torrance of Tinto, as my father was before me ; 
but, at all events, I am one that knows the county and its ways. I 
could tell them what’s wanted for Scotland. But no ; a boy like 
Rintoul that knows nothing — without sense or experience — he’s the 
man. My father-in-law, for so clever as he is, has awful little 
sense.” 

There is no seat vacant as yet,” said Dr. Stirling ; ‘Sve might 
leave that question, Tinto, till the time comes.” 

That’s your old-fashioned way,” said Torrance ; but his 
lordship is a man of his century, as they call it. He’ll not wait till 
the last moment. He’ll get himself known as the friend of Liberal 
measures,' and all that. All his tools are in the fire now ; and when 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


H3 

the time comes to use them they’ll be hot and handy. Then he 
laughed, turning his eyes from one to another. 

You’re his tools,” he said. 

It was not possible for either of the listeners to conceal the ir- 
ritation with which they received this sudden shot. They looked at 
each other this time with a sudden angry consultation. Dr. Stirling 
touched his empty glass significantly with the forefinger of one hand, 
and held up the other as a warning. ‘‘ It seems to me,” he said, 
that it would be an excellent thing about this time of the night to join 
the ladies. It will very soon be time for my wife and to me go.” 

He is afraid of his wife, you see, Erskine,” said Torrance, 
with his laugh. We’re all that. Keep out of the noose as long as 
you can, my lad. You may be very thankful for what you’ve miss- 
ed, as well as what you’ve got.” 

I suppose you mean something by what you are saying, Mr. 
Torrance,” said John, but I do not understand what it is.” 

Upon this Torrance laughed louder than before. “ He’s con- 
founded sly — confounded sly. He’ll not let on he knows — that’s 
because you’re here, doctor. Join the ladies, as you say — that is far 
the best thing you can do — and Erskine and I will have a glass 
more.” 

A great deal better not, Tinto,” said the doctor ; you know 
it’s not the fashion now ; and Lady Caroline will wonder what’s 
become of us. It’s a little dark down the avenue, and my wife is 
nervous. You must come and shake hands with her before she 
goes.” 

Both the guests rose, but the master of the house kept his seat. 
Come, Erskine, stay a bit, and tell me about — about — what was the 
name of the place ? Let the doctor go. He has his sermon to 
write, no doubt, and his wife to please. Go away, doctor, we’ll join 
you presently,” Torrance said, giving him a jocular push toward 
the door. Come, Erskine, here’s a new bottle I want your opinion 
of. If you ever drank a glass of claret like it, it will be a wonder to 
me.” 

John stood hesitating for a moment. Then he took his seat again. 
If he was to quarrel with this fellow, better, he thought, to have it out. 

You want to question me,” he said ; “then do so simply, and 
you shall have my answer. I am unaware what the point is ; but 
whatever it is, speak out — I do not understand hints. I am quite at 
your service if I can furnish you with any information.” 

“Go away, doctor,” said Torrance, with another push. “ Tell 
them we’re coming. I’ll be in time to shake hands with Mrs. Ster- 
ling : join the ladies — that’s the right thing to do.” 

The minister was in a great strait. He stood looking from one 
to another. Then he went out slowly, closing the door softly behind 
him, but lingering in the anteroom, that if any conflict of voices 
arose he might be at hand to interfere. Torrance himself was 
sobered by the gravity of the proceeding. He did not speak im- 
mediately, but sat and stared at the companion with whom he was 
thus left tUe-d,-tUe, He had not expected that John would have 


144 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 

courage to meet this interrogation ; and notwithstanding his per- 
tinacity, he was disconcerted. Erskine met his gaze calmly, and 
said, ‘‘You wanted to ask me some questions. I am quite at your 
disposal now.” 

“Question? — no, not so much a question,” faltered the other, 
coming to himself. “ Pm sure — 1 beg your pardon — no offence 
was meant. I asked — for information.” 

“ And I shall be glad to give you any I possess.” 

Torrance made a pause again ; then he burst out suddenly — 
“Hang it, man, I didn’t mean to give you any offence ! I asked 
you — there couldn’t be a simpler question — what was the name of 

the place where — you met my — you met the Lindores ” 

“ The place was a mountain inn on the way to Zermatt — a very 
secluded place. We were there only about six weeks. Mr. Lin- 
dores (then) and his family were very friendly to us because of my 
name, which he knew. I suppose you have some ulterior meaning 
in these questions. What is it ? I will answer you in all respects, 
but I ought to know what it means first.” 

Torrance was entirely cowed. “It means nothing at all,” he 

said. “ I dare say I ani an idiot. I wanted to know ” 

“We were there six weeks,” repeated John, — “an idle set of 
young men, far better pleased with mountain expeditions than with 
our books. We did little or nothing ; but we were always delighted 
to meet a family-party so pleasant and friendly. There we parted, 
not knowing if we should meet again. I did not even know that 
Mr. Lindores had come to the title. When I found them here it 

was the greatest surprise to me. I had never even heard ” 

“ Erskine,” cried Torrance — by this time he had drunk several 
more glasses of wine, and was inclined to emotion — “ Erskine, 
you’re an honest fellow ! Whoever likes may take my word for it. 
You’re an honest fellow ! Now my mind’s at rest. I might have 
gone on suspecting and doubting, and — well, you know a man never 
can be sure ; but when another fellow stands up to him honest and 
straightforward — ” he said, getting up to his feet, with a slight lurch 
toward John, as if he would have thrown himself upon his shoulder ; 
and then he laughed, with a gurgle in his breath, and thrust his 
arm through that of his reluctant guest. “ We’re friends for life,” 
said Torrance ; “ you’re an honest fellow ! I always had a fancy for 
you, John Erskine. Letsh join the ladies, as that old fogy of a doc- 
tor said.” 

The old fogy of a doctor, who had been hanging about in alarm 
lest he might be called upon to stop a quarrel, had no more than 
time to hurry on before them and get inside the drawing-room door, 
before the master of the house pushed in, still holding John by the 
arm. “ Here,” Torrance cried, depositing his unwilling companion 
suddenly with some force in a chair by Lady Caroline’s side — “ here, 
talk to her ! You can talk to her as much as you please. An honest 
fellow — an honest fellow. Lady Car ! ” 

Then he made a somewhat doubtful step to Mrs. Stirling, and 
stood over her diffusing an atmosphere of wine around him. Poor 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


145 


ladies ! in the drawing-room, even in this temperate age, how often 
will a man approach them, and sicken the air in their clean presence 
with fumes of wine 1 The minister’s wife was tolerant of the sins 
of the squires ; but she coughed, poor soul, as she was enveloped 
in these powerful odors. 

Well, Mrs. Stirling,” Torrance said, with cumbrous liveliness, 
‘‘ your husband here, we could not get him away from his wine. 
We’ve been doing nothing but talk of coming up-stairs tliis quarter 
of an hour ; but get the doctor to budge from his wine — no ! that 
was more than we could do,” and he ended with a loud guffaw. 
The doctor’s wife coughed, and smiled a sickly smile upon the great 
man, and shook her head with a Fie, William 1 ” at her husband. 

Dear me, dear me ! ” Mrs. Stirling said after, as she walked dowm 
the avenue with her Shetland shawl over her head, holding close by 
her husband’s arm, ‘Svhen 1 think of poor Lady Caroline, my 
heart’s sore. That muckle man ! and oh, the smell of him, William ! 
You’re not so particular as you should be in that respect, the best 
of ye — but I thought I would have fainted with him hanging over 
me. And that fragile, delicate bit woman!” She should not 
have married him,” the doctor said, curtly. But his wife was a 
merciful woman, and she did not feel sure how far a girl would have 
been justified in refusing such a marriage. She shook her head, 
and said, ‘‘Poor thing I ” from the bottom of her heart. 

“I am glad I have met with Mr. Torrance’s approval,” John 
said ; but Carry gave him so wistful a deprecating look that he was 
silent. And he had not yet escaped from his uncomfortable host. 
When Mrs. Stirling went away with her husband, Torrance, w'hose 
sole idea of making himself agreeable to a woman was by rough 
banter, transferred himself with another lurch to Nora. “ And 
how’s the old soldier? ” he said. “ I suppose he’s going overall the 
men within fifty miles to see who will make the best husband, eh ? 
It was all I could do to keep out of their hands when I was a bache- 
lor. If they had had their will Lady Car would never have had the 
chance of me : no great harm in that perhaps, you will say. But 
you must not be saucy. Miss Nora. Men are not so easy to get 
when all’s said.” 

“No, indeed,” said Nora; — “men like you, Mr. Torrance. I 
could not hope, you know, to be so lucky as Lady Car.” 

Upon this, though his head w'as not very clear, the uneasy laird 
grew red, fearing satire. It w as perfectly true, to his own thinking ; 
but he was enlightened enough to know that Nora had another mean- 
ing. He would have liked to punish the saucy little chit, w^ho 
held up (he thought) her little face to his so disdainfully in his 
own house. As lucky as Lady Car indeed ! She should have no 
luck at all, with that impudence of hers. It would serve her right 
if she never got the offer of any man. But he dared not say exactly 
wLat he thought. Conventional restraints, in such a case, were too 
much for the free-born wit even of Pat Torrance of Tinto. 

“ That’s a great compliment to me, no doubt,” he said; “ but 
never be down-hearted. There is as good fish in the sea as ever 
7 


146 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


came out of the net. There’s our neighbor here, for instance,” he 
said, stooping to speak confidentially, and jerking his thumb over 
his shoulder at John, with one of his usual bursts of laughter. ‘‘ Now, 
what do you think of him. Miss Nora ? A real honest fellow, I can 
testify, and a nice little property. What do you think of him ? ” 

The tone was meant to be confidential, but it was loud enough 
to have reached any ear in the room ; and it was Nora’s turn to red- 
den with anger intolerable. She jumped up while he stood and 
laughed, shaking his sides. I’ve given her a poser there,” he said. 
<< I’ve given her her answer there.” He could not help returning to 
it as, much against Nora’s will, he accompanied her to the door and 
put her into the little pony-carriage which had come for her. ‘‘You 
must think of what I say, Miss Nora. You would be very comfort- 
able. You’ll see that’s what the old soldier is driving at. And I 
don’t think you could do better, if you’ll take my advice.” 

John, who had followed down -stairs, not wishing to have any 
more than he could avoid of his host’s society, saw the indignant 
countenance of Nora looking out wrathfully upon himself as the car- 
riage turned from the door. What had he done to deserve the angry 
look ? But the other, standing somewhat unsteadily on the steps, 
greeted the departure with a laugh that was loud and long. 

. “ One good turn deserves another,” he said. “ I’ve put her 

against you, Erskine, and that’s the best thing I could do. Mind what 
you’re about, my fine fellow, or you’ll fall into some snare or other. 
I would not marry, if 1 were you. You have enough for one, but it 
wouldn’t be enough for two. If you manage Dalrulzian well, you 
may be very comfortable as an unmarried man. Take my advice. 
Of course they will all be setting their caps at you. There’s Aggie 
Sempill — she thought she had got me ; but no, I knew better. Truly 
in vain is the snare set in the sight of any bird. There ! you’ve 
Scripture for it. And now here’s Nora Barrington — 

John grasped his arm violently. “ Be silent !” he cried in his 
ear. The butler stood on the steps behind, laughing decorously 
under his breath, as in duty bound, at his master’s joke. John’s 
new groom at his horse’s head grinned respondent. What he would 
have given to take the big clown by the collar and fling him into the 
midst of the bushes ! But this was not to be thought of. Such vio- 
lent impulses have to be repressed nowadays. 

“ Well, well, we’ll name no names,” said Tinto. “They’ll all 
be after you ; no need to name names. And I’ll tell them all you’re 
an honest fellow. Don’t you be led away by his lordship, no more 
than the women. Keep your vote to yourself, and your heart 
to yourself, that’s my advice. Good-night to you, John — you’re a 
very decent fellow,” cried the big voice in the darkness. Torrance 
had found out that this epithet annoyed young Erskine, and he liked 
it all the better in consequence. He shouted it after him into the 
night as, with another great laugh he went back, into his house to 
Lady Car. Alas, poor Carry ! The others went away, shook off the 
disagreeable presence, got out of the atmosphere of his wine and the 
roar of his laugh ; but Carry, than whom there was no more fastidi- 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


147 


ous, delicately nurtured woman — Carry sat helpless, scared, await- 
ing him. Whatever happened, she could not run away. 

As for John, he flew down the avenue in the dark, taking that 
turn on the top of the scaur, which was allowed by everybody to be 
so dangerous, without knowing anything about it, guided by instinct 
and rage ; for he had never been there before. When they had 
passed the danger Peter, the groom, drew a long breath. That’s 
past, the Lord be thankit ! ” he said. It was natural that Peter should 
suspect his master of sitting long after dinner and sharing the ex- 
citement of his host. 

“ What’s past ? ” said John, angrily : he had nearly taken an 
inner gate, dog-cart and all, as if it had been a fence. His horse was 
fresh, and his mind ablaze with irritation and impatience. What’s 
past ? ” he repeated, angrily, when the man clambered up again to 
his side. 

That corner, sir, they call the Scaur. There used to be a pal- 
ing, but it fell to pieces, and this laird — I beg your pardon, sir — 
young Tinto, that is a perfect deevil when he’s on a horse, would 
never let it be mended. It’s a’ cleared away, and there’s a grand 
view when there’s daylicht to see it, and doun-bye the sound o’ the 
river roaring. If it werena for the horse’s feet and the rate we’re 
going, you would hear it now.” 

You think we’re going too fast ” 

Na — no me,” said the groom, cautiously, now that I see, sir, 
you ken what’s what. But it’s a fickle corner in the dark. Not to 
know is maybe the best way. When you ken you’re apt to be ower 
cautious or ower bold — one’s as bad as the ither. A wrang step, a 
bit swing out on the open, and there would be no help for ye. Neither 
you nor me, sir, would have seen a freend belonging to us again.” 

It is unpardonable,” said John, ‘‘if this is so, to leave it with- 

protection or notice.” 

“ Well, sir, you see it’s no just the richt road. It’s a sLcrt cut. 
You take the left hand at thae lily-oaks. I thought you bid to ken, 
as you took it so bold, without a moment’s thought. I wouldna ad- 
vise you to do it again. Tinto, he’s a perfect deevil on horseback, 
as I was saying. He’s aye riding that way. They say he’ll break 
his neck sometime or other,- he’s so wild and reckless — over that 
scaur” 

“ And no such great loss either,” cried John, in his indignation. 
He hoped the words were not audible, in the rush of his horse’s 
hoofs and jingle of the harness, the moment they had left his lips ; 
and he was annoyed by the confidential tone of Peter’s reply. 

“ Maybe no, sir. There’s plenty is of that opinion. There was 
mair tint at Shirramuir.” 

John felt as if he had condescended to gossip with his servant 
about his neighbor, and was ashamed of himself. But as he review- 
ed the events of the evening his pulses beat higher and higher. That 
he should have pleased this big bully, and received the offer of his 
friendship, was something half humiliating, half ridiculous. But 
what could he do ? The bonds of neighborhood are stringent : that 


148 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


you must not, if possible, quarrel with, or markedly avoid, or put 
any slight upon, the man w'hose lands march with your own, is a self- 
evident proposition. And the husband of Carry Lindores ! When 
John thought of this part of it there escaped from him an almost 
groan of horror and pity. The rest of the party had dispersed, and 
were free of the big laugh, the rude jests, the fierce, staring eyes; 
but Carry remained behind 

Peter the groom did not feel so sure that his new master had par- 
taken too freely of the wine at Tinto, which everybody knew to be 
better and stronger than wine anywhere else, by the time they got to 
Dalrulzian. But he announced that he was ‘^just one of Tinto’s 
kind, a deevil when he’s behind a horse,” as he took his supper. 
This, however, was a suggestion which brought down upon his head 
the indignant displeasure of Bauby, who regretted audibly that she 
had kept the potatoes hot for such an ill-speaking loon— and of Rolls, 
who, accepting the praise implied, put down the superficial judgment 
of this new-comer as it deserved. There will no man beat an Ers- 
kine for clear head and steady hands,” he said, if that’s what you 
ca’ being of Tinto’s kind ; but you’ll observe, my lad, that we’re a’ 
of a reasonable age, and I’ll have nane o’ your rash opinions here.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


“ Oh yes, that’s true — I’m an old Tory. I’m proud of the name,” 
said Sir James, with his genial countenance. If you’ll believe me, 
my young friend, most changes are for the worse. When I remem- 
ber, before I went to India, what a cheery world it was — none^ 
those new-fangled notions were so much as thought of — we were ml 
kindly one with another, as country neighbors should be. The par- 
ish school — that was good enough for me. I got the most of my 
schooling there. We had a grand dominie — there was not a more 
learned man out of St. Andrews or Aberdeen. Old Robert Beatoun 
the blacksmith was at the school with me. We’ve been great friends 
ever since, but I cannot say that he ever took anything upon him in 
consequence. That’s one of your new-fangled notions, too — to part 
all the world into classes, and then, when their habits are formed 
and their ways of living settled, to proclaim they’re all equal. No, 
no — they’re not all equal ; you may take my word for it, tliough I’m 
no Solomon.” 

I don’t think so, either, Sir James ; but, pardon nie, if you 
found no evil in going to the same school as the old blacksmith ” 
Not a pin, sir — ^ ? ” f'l'ied the old P’eneral. W^e re- 


not a pm ! ” cried the old general, 
spected each other. We were great friends, but not associates. I 
had my own cronies, and he had his ; but we always respected each 
other. And do you think to sit on the same bench with a wholesome 
country lad in corduroy breeks was worse for me than being packed 


THE LATHES LINDORES, 


149 


up with a set of little dandies, taking care of their books and keep- 
ing their hands clean, and sent out of their own country till they’re 
made strangers to it, as comes to pass with your Eton and the rest of 

them I ask your pardon, Erskine. I forgot you were there 

yourself ” 

There is no offence,’^ said John. I think I agree with you so 
far ; but, Sir James, your theory is far more democratic, far more 
levelling ” 

Me democratic and levelling ! ” said Sir James. That will be 
news. No, no ; that was all in the course of nature. When a lad 
was to be pushed in the world his friends pushed him. You can- 
not do that now. When you saw your friend with a houseful of 
children you would say to him, ^ What are you going to do with those 
fine lads of yours ? ’ and if you knew a director, or had influence to 

hear of a writership, or a set of colors Now ye cannot help on 

your friend’s boys, and ye cease to think of them. What little ye 
might do ye forget to do it. Robert Beatoun’s grandson, you’ll tell 
me, got in high on the list for those competition-wallahs, as they call 
them. Well, 1 say nothing against it. The lad is a good lad, though 
he was never brought up in the way of having men under him, and 
he’ll feel the want of that when he gets to India. The like of me — 
we were poor enough, but we had always been used to be of the offi- 
cer kind. That makes a great difference ; and if you think we did 
our work worse for having no bother about examinations — — ” 

‘‘ That has proved itself. Sir James. Nobody pretends to say it 
did not work well.” 

Then why change it ? ” said the old man. And about your 
hospitals and things. When there was a poor natural, as they call 
it, in a village, everybody was good to the creature ; and do you 
think the honest folk that had known it all its life would not put up 
with it, and feel for it, more than servants in a hospital ? When wc 
had a burden to bear we bore it in those days, and did the best we 
could for our own. We didn’t shuffle them off on the first person’s 
shoulders that would take them up.” 

All this John had brought upon himself by his reference to Lord 
Lindores’s scheme. Whatever might be well with respect to the 
election, he had felt that there could be but one voice in respect to a 
hospital ; but John had soon been convinced that in that respect also 
there certainly was more than one voice. 

But I suppose,” he said, feeling somewhat confused by this 
style of reasoning, for it was not a subject upon which the young 
man had thought for himself — I suppose, for the suffering and mis- 
erable — for those out of the common line of humanity, more badly 
off, less capable than their neighbors— hospitals are necessary.” 

‘‘ Let those that belong to them care for them, sir,” cried Sir 
James. I’m saying it in no hard-hearted way. Do you not think 
that when a trouble is sent upon a family, it’s far better for the 
family to make a sacrifice — to draw close together, to bear it, and 
take care of their own ? That’s always been my opinion — that was 
the practice long syne. If ye had a thorn in the flesh ye supported 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


150 

it. When one was ill the rest took care of him. There were no 
hired sick-nurses in those days. When ye had a fever your mother 
nursed you. If you were blind or lame every one would give you a 
little, and nobody grudged your meat or your drink. And that was 
how Scotland was kept so independent, and the poor folk hated debt 
and beggary. Once you give your own duty over to other folks, you 
sacrifice that,’’ the old soldier said, with conviction. Sir James was 
of the class of men who are never more entirely at home than when 
they are exercising the duties of beneficence — the sort of men who 
manage hospitals and establish charities by nature. Had the county 
hospital been existing, he it was, and not Lord Lindores, who would 
have given time and trouble to it ; but Sir James was as full of pre- 
judices, as a hearty, healthy old gentleman has a right to be. He 
would not give in to the new thing ; and his arguments were shrewd, 
although he himself would have been the last to be bound by them. 
He would have taken the burden off a poor man’s shoulders and 
carried it himself without a compunction. Saying is one thing and 
doing another, all the world over ; only it is usual that people pro- 
fess not less, but more, benevolent sentiments than are natural to 
them. Sir James took the other way. 

You must excuse me saying,” the old gentleman went on, that 
you must not trust too much to Lord Lindores. Part of it is politi- 
cal — there is no doubt about that. He’s wanting to get a character for 
being public-spirited and a useful member of his party. They tell 
me he’s thinking of bringing in his son in the case of an election, but 
that would never do — that is to say, from my point of view,” said Sir 
James, laughing. ^^You’re on the other side ? — ah, to be sure, I had 
forgotten that. Well, I suppose we’re all meaning the same thing — 
the good of the country ; but depend upon it, that’s not to be pro- 
cured in this way. The Lindores family are very excellent people — 
very worthy people ; but they’re new-fangled — they have lived 
abroad, and they have got foreign notions into their heads.” 

‘‘ Benevolent institutions are, above all others, English notions — 
or so, at least, I have always heard,” John said. 

This brought a slight flush on the old man’s cheek. Well, I 
believe you are right — I think you are right. I will not go against 
that. Still, it is a great pity to bring foreign notions into a quiet 
country place.” 

They were walking up and down the lawn at Chiefswood, where 
a party of country neighbors were about to assemble. It was a kind 
of gathering which had scarcely been acclimatized in the North ; 
and the pleasure of sitting out, though the seats were comfortably 
arranged in the most sheltered spot, was at the best an equivocal 
one ; but fortunately the drawing-room, with its large, bright win - 
dows overlooking the scene of the gentle gayeties provided for, was 
behind, and there already some groups had collected. John Ers- 
kine, without being aware of it, was the hero of the feast. He was 
the new-comer, and everybody was willing to do him honor. It was 
expected that he was^to be the chief performer in those out-door 
games which were not yet very well known to the young people. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


151 

And it was somewhat disconcerting that he should have chosen this 
moment to discourse with old Sir James upon the county hospital, 
and the poor lunatics and imbeciles of the district, for whose benefit 
Lord Lindores was so anxious to legislate. 

Had it been any other subject, the old general would have dis- 
missed the young man to his peers, for Sir James had a great notion 
that the young people should be left to entertain each other. But, 
as it happened, the theme was one wLich had disturbed his genial 
mind. He was vexed at once in his prejudices, and in his honest 
conviction that the county, to which he was so glad to get back after 
his long exile, was the best managed and most happy of districts. 
He had found nothing amiss in it when he came home. It had been 
welcome to him in every detail of the old life which he remembered 
so well. There were too many changes, he thought, already. He 
would have liked to preserve everything. And to have it suggested 
by a new gingerbread, half-English, half-foreign intruder, with all 
the light-minded ways that belonged to the unknown races on che 
Continent, that the beloved county wanted reorganization almost be- 
trayed the old man into ill-humor. The guests kept arriving while 
he talked, but he talked on, giving forth his views loosely upon gen- 
eral questions. We’re going the wrong road,” he said, ‘‘ aye 
seeking after something that’s new. The old way was the best. 
Communistic plans are bad things, whatever ye may say for them ; 
and shuffling off your sick and your poor on other folks’ hands, and 
leaving them to the public to provide for, what’s that but commun- 
ism ? You’ll never get me to consent to it,” Sir James said. 

Where is the general ? ” Lady Montgomery was saying in the 
drawing-room. Bless me ! has nobody seen Sir James ? He can- 
not expect me to go out without my bonnet and get my death of cold 
setting all the young people agoing. No, no, I told him that. I 
said to him, ‘ You may put out the chairs, but if you think Barbara 
Erskine and me, and other sensible women, are going to sit there in 
a May day and get back all our winter rheumatism, you are mis- 
taken, Sir James.’ But now, where is the general? Nora, you 
must just go and look for him, and say I’m surprised that he should 
neglect his duty. When I yielded to this kind of party, which is not 
my notion of pleasure, I told him plainly he must take the lawn part 
of it upon his own hands.” 

And where’s my nephew John ? ” said Miss Barbara Erskine, 
who sat in one of the seats of honor, within pleasant reach of a 
bright fire. “ Nora, when you look for Sir James, you’ll look for 
him too. I’m affronted, tell him, that he was not the first to find me 
out.” 

I hear Mr. Erskine is a great friend of the Lindores,” said Mrs. 
Sempill. “ Having no son at home, I have not had it in my power, 
Miss Barbara, to show him any attention, but I hoped to make his 
acquaintance to-day. They tell me he knew the Lindores well in 
their former circumstances. That is, no doubt, a fine introduction 
for him to the county.” 

If an Erskine of Dalrulzian wanted any introduction,” said 


152 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


Miss Barbara, it would be a very ill one, in my opinion. For 
there are as many that think ill of them as there are that think well 
of them, and they’re not our kind of people. But John Erskine 
wants nobody to introduce him, I hope. His father’s son, and my 
father’s great-grandson, should have well-wishers enough.” 

And a well-looking, well-spoken young man. He minds me of 
your uncle Walter, the one that went abroad,” said old Mrs. Meth- 
ven of the Broomlees. She was older than Miss Barbara — older 
than the imagination could conceive. Her memory slipped all the 
recent generation, and went back to heights of antiquity unknown. 
Miss Barbara Erskine was still a young person to this old lady, and 
Sir James a frisky young soldier. Walter Erskine was the first 
person I ever saw that wore his own hair without so much as a ribbon. 
It had a terrible naked look, but you soon got used to it. This one 
is like him. But you’ll scarcely mind him. He was young when he 
left the county. I cannot remember if you were born.” 

‘‘He’s like his father, which is not so far back,” Miss Barbara 
said. 

“ Bless me, bless me ! where is the general? ” cried Lady Mont- 
gomery. She was standing in front of the great bow-window which 
looked upon the lawn, with her beautiful Indian shawl on her 
shoulders. Grouped upon the grass were several parties of the 
younger people, not quite knowing what to do with themselves. 
Some of the ladies, wrapped in warm cloaks and shawls, were seated 
round, waiting for some novelty of amusement with which they were 
unacquainted, and wondering when ft was going to begin. It seemed 
to Lady Montgomery the most dreadful neglect of duty that there 
was no one to set the young people agoing. Will anything have 
happened to Sir James?” she said, in anxious Scotch, and cast a 
glance back at the pleasant fire, and wrapped her shawl more closely 
round with a sense that Providence might require of her the heroic 
effort of stepping outside. But just then she perceived in the dis- 
tance that her general had been captured, and was being led back in 
triumph to the lawn by Nora and Agnes Sempill, two of his chief 
favorites. John followed after them, looking by no means triumphant. 
When Lady Montgomery saw this she gave a nod of satisfaction, and 
returned to the fire. “ Whatever they’re going to do, it’ll begin 
now,” she said. “ If it’s worth looking at we can see it from the win- 
dow ; but, for my part. I’m very anxious about putting folk to sit 
on the grass at this time of the year. I would not wonder to hear of 
bronchitis or inflammation after it — but it’s none of my doing. Sir 
James is just daft about all the ne\y-fashioned ways of amusing young 
people. For my part, I say there’s nothing like the old way — just to 
clear out the rooms, and get the fiddlers, and let them dance. But 
that would be a daftish thing too, in daylight,” the old lady said ; 
for she was not at all up to the current of events. 

It was, I believe, the venerable game of croquet which was the 
“ new-fashioned thing” in question, and which all the people outside 
crowded round to see, while a few highly-instructed young persons, 
who had brought the knowledge from “ the South,” proceeded, with 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


153 


much modest importance, to exhibit for the benefit of their neigh- 
bors. It’s quite easy,” they said, each feeling a sort of benevolent 
missionary. John Erskine was one of these ilLuminati , he was 

the partner of Agnes Sempill, the girl who had trembled for a 
moment lest Mr. Torrance of Tinto might be going to select her from 
the many that smiled upon him. She would have married him had 
this been ; but it must be said for her that she was unfeignedly glad 
to have escaped. This having been the case, it will be apparent 
that poor Agnes was no longer in her first youth. She was five 
or six and twenty — young enough, yet not altogether a girl ; and 
she knew, poor young woman, that she must marry the next man 
who offered himself — they were so poor! and her mother did not fail 
to impress upon her that she was losing all her chances. She looked 
upon John Erskine, accordingly, with more critical interest than is 
ordinarily felt. He was about her own age, but she decided that 
he was too young ; and she hoped, whatever he was going to do in 
the matrimonial way, that he would show his intentions at once, and 
not force her mother into unnecessary efforts. ‘‘Too young — but 
he might do very well for Mary,” she said to herself ; and then 'she 
turned to him to tMk about croquet, as if there was no such im- 
portant subject. 

“It is such a thing to have something that can be played out- 
of-doors ! ” she said. “ Well, not so much in Scotland, that is true, 
but still we want a little variety. Do you play golf, Mr. Erskine ? 
The ladies’ golf is very nice ; it is only putting — but you won’t 
understand what that means. At St. Andrews there is the Ladies’ 
Links 

“ Which sounds romantic and picturesque at least.” 

“ Oh, it is not at all romantic — picturesque after a sort. Sea- 
side slopes — what you call downs in England ; but I can’t describe 
it. Is it my turn? You should be able to get me nicely through 
that hoop next stroke you make. Sir James is always the first to get 
us any novelty that is going. He is always on the outlook for some- 
thing. This is the very first in the county. They have not got cro- 
quet yet even at Lindores.” 

“ Does Lindores generally set the fashion ? ” said John, indis- 
creetly, not knowing what to say. 

“ The fashion ! oh no, certainly not,” cried Miss Sempill. “ Of 
course they are the highest rank, and walk in and out before us all ; 
but for anything else — You used to know them, I hear, Mr. Ers- 
kine. Tell me something about them. Oh, we are neighbors, but 
not great friends. We do not move about very much ; we are hum- 
ble people, without carriages and horses. I suppose they lived very 
quietly before ” 

“ I only knew them,” said John, learning to employ the univer- 
sal formula, “ abroad ; and as the way of living is so different ” 

“ Ah ! is it really so ?” said Agnes, with quick interest ; “ do 
people really live so much cheaper abroad ? I suppose you are not 
expected to keep up appearances in the same way ; and then you 
get all your amusements so cheaply, and you can do a great deal, 

7 “" 


154 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


and go about a great deal, on very little. I have always heard that. 
But when you’re a large family the mere travelling must be a large 
item. I should think it would swallov/ up all the savings of the first 
year.” 

The question was one which interested her so much that she 
scarcely left time for a reply. 

I have often thought of it,” she said. The girls, poor things, 
get so little to amuse them here. Abroad, so far as one hears, there 
is nothing but amusement. Concerts and operas for next to noth- 
ing, and always a band playing somewhere — isn’t it so ? And you 
get houses quite cheap, and servants that will turn their hand to 
anything. I suppose the Lindores lived in quite a humble way out 
there ? ” 

They moved about a great deal, I believe,” said John. In 
summer, in the mountains, whether you are rich or poor, it does not 
make much difference.” 

This was all the young man knew. Miss Sempill interrupted 
him, with an eager light in her eyes : Doesn’t it, really ? Then 
that is the ideal place I have been looking for all my life — a place 
where to be rich or poor makes no difference — Oh, is it my turn 
again ? What a nuisance 1 Mr. Erskine is telling me of a place I 
have dreamt of all my life.” 

But you must bestir yourself — you must bestir yourself,” cried 
the old general. ‘‘Reflect, my dear: you’re one of many — you 
must not mind your own enjoyment for the moment. Ay, my young 
friend, so you’ve been telling a lady of a place she’s dreamed of all 
her life ? — that’s better than bothering your head about hospitals or 
my lord’s schemes. Come, come, John Erskine, put your heart into 
it : here are some of the bonniest faces in the North waiting to see 
you play.” 

John was not dull to this inducement. It was a pretty group which 
gathered round as spectators, watching every stroke. All the Sem- 
pill girls, an eager group of pretty, portionless creatures, eager for 
every kind of pleasure, and getting very little, envious in a sisterly 
way of Agnes, who knew the new game, and who had secured the 
new gallant. They were envious yet proud of her. “ Our Agnes 
knows all about it,” they said ; “ she has tried to teach us ; but one 
person can never teach a game : when you see it played you learn 
in a moment.” They looked over each other’s shoulders to see 
John play, which he did very badly, as was natural ; and then they 
dropped him and followed the next player, Willie Montgomery, Sir 
James’s grand-nephew, who, they all agreed, did a great deal better. 
Our young man,, in spite of himself, felt a little discomfited. He 
came back to his partner to be consoled — though, as he had failed to 
do her the service with her ball which she expected, she was a little 
dissatisfied too. She was disposed to be cross because her play in 
the new game had failed of its triumphant effect through her part- 
ner’s fault. “ You have not played much, Mr. Erskine, I suppose? 
Oh, it does not matter — when nobody knows, one style of play is just 
as good as another ; but I thought no one could have missed that 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


155 


ball. Never mind, it is not of the least importance. Tell me more 
about — abroad. 

If you will tell me,” said John, much mortified by these re- 
marks, “what you understand by abroad.” 

“ Oh, it is all a little the same thing, isn’t it ? The first place you 
can think of — where the Lindores lived. I dare say it was just as 
important to them then as it is to us now to be economical, and spend 
as little as they could.” 

“ The interest that people take in the place where I met the Lin^ 
dores is astonishing,” said John. “ I had to go through a catechism 
at Tinto the other night.” 

“Ah! then you have been at Tinto. Do you think, Mr. Ers- 
kine, they are so very unhappy as people say ? ” 

“ I do not know what people say^” was all the answer John could 
make. 

“ There is nothing they don’t say,” cried Miss Sempill ; “ that he 
beats her — I have heard as much as that. I wonder if it can be at all 
her fault ? I never cared for Pat Torrance myself, but nobody 
thought that of him before he was married. Do you think, perhaps, 
if she had taken a little more interest at first — One can never tell ; 
he was always rough, but not such a savage as that.” 

“ I have no opinion on the subject. I am only a stranger, you 
know,” John said. 

“ Ah ! but I can see your opinion in your face. You think it is 
he that is to blame. Well, so he is, no doubt; but there are gener- 
ally faults, don’t you think, on both sides ? And then, you see, she 
was brought up abroad — one always feels that is a little risky for a 
girl. To be sure, you may turn upon me and say. Why ask so many 
questions about it if you hold such an opinion of it ? But there is a 
difference : we are all grown up but Lucy ; and if mamma and five of 
us cannot take care of Lucy — Both of the Lindores have that dis- 
advantage. Don’t you think Lady Edith is a little high and mighty ? 
She think’s none of us are good enough for her. They are not very 
friendly, neither the one nor the other. They don’t feel at home 
among us, I suppose. No doubt it is our fault as much as theirs,” 
this candid critic said. 

Thus John heard nothing but the same sentiment over and over 
again repeated. His friends were not popular, and he himself stood 
in some danger of being reckoned as of their faction. There was 
no one so bold as to undertake the defence of Torrance ; and yet 
there was a certain toleration accorded to him, as if his case had 
extenuating circumstances. John did not distinguish himself that 
afternoon as his friends expected him to do. His play was feeble, 
and did no credit to his training in “ the South ; ” and as he contin- 
ued to be interrogated by every new-comer about his own antece- 
dents and his former acquaintance with the Lindores, it was difficult 
for him to repress all signs of impatience. There was not very much 
variety in the talk of the county, to judge by these specimens. 
They all asked how he liked the North, what he thought of the so- 
ciety, and something or other about the absent family. The monot- 


1^6 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


ony was broken when he was taken into the drawing-room to be 
surveyed by the old ladies. Old Mrs. Methven, in her old yellow 
lace and shabby feathers, who looked to him like a superannuated 
cockatoo, pronounced once more that he was the image of Walter 
Erskine, who was killed in the French war, and who was the first 
man she ever saw in his own hair, without even a ribbon. ‘‘It 
looked very naked like,’’ the old lady repeated ; “no just decent, 
but you soon got used to it.” When these greetings and introduc- 
tions were over Miss Barbara took his arm, and declared her intention 
of taking a turn on the green and inspecting the new game. But it 
was not the game which interested the old lady. She had a word of 
warning to say. 

“John, my man, at your age you think little of good advice — 
above all, from an old woman ; but just one word : you must not 
bind yourself hand and foot to the Lindores. You have your own 
place to uphold, and the credit of your family. We’ve all formed 
our opinion of the77i; and if you’re to be considered as one of them, 
a kind of retainer of theirs ” 

“Retainer!” cried John, deeply piqued. Then he made an ef- 
fort to recover his temper. “You must see how unreasonable this 

is, ” he said, with a forced smile. “ They are the only people I 
know. I have the greatest respect for them all, but I have done 
nothing to — identify myself with the family.” 

He spoke with some heat, and reddened, much to his annoyance. 
What way but one was there of identifying himself with them ? and 
what hope was there that he would ever be permitted to do that ? 
The mere suggestion in his own bosom made him red, and then 
pale. 

“You take up their opinions — you support their plans ; you’re a 
partisan, or so they tell me. All that is bad for you, John, my man. 
You’ll excuse me speaking; biitwho should take an interest in you 
if it’s not me ? ” 

“ All this is absurd,” he cried. “Take up their opinions! I 
think the earl is right about a county hospital. I will support him in 
that with all my heart. Your favorite minister. Aunt Barbara ” 

“ I have no favorite minister,” said Miss Barbara, somewhat 
sharply. “ I never let myself be influenced by one of them. You 
mean the doctor, I suppose ? — he’s far too advanced for me. Ay, 
that’s just the man I’m meaning. He tells me you’re taking up all 
the Lindores’s plans — a great satisfaction to him, for he’s a partisan 
too. Mind, I say nothing against the hospital. What other places 
have we ought to have too. We have the same needs as our neigh- 
bors. If Perth has one, I would have one — that’s my principle. 
But I would not take it up because it’s a plan of Lord Lindores’s. 
And I hear you and that muckle lout Pat Torrance were nearly com- 
ing to blows ” 

“ Is that the minister too ? ” John cried, angrily. 

“ No, it’s not the minister; the minister had nothing to say to 

it. Don’t you take up a prejudice against the minister. That’s 
just as silly as the other way. It was another person. Pat Tor- 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


157 


ranee is iust a brute ; but you’ll make little by taking up the defence 
of the weaker side there. A woman should hold her tongue, what- 
ever happens. You must not set up, at your age, as the champion 
of ill-used wives.” 

“So far from that,” said John, with fierce scorn, the tipsy 
brute swore eternal friendship. It was all 1 could do to shake him 
off.” 

But Miss Barbara still shook her head. “ Let them redd their 
quarrels their own way,” she said. “Stand you on your own feet, John. 
You should lay hands suddenly on no man, the Apostle says. Mr. 
Monypenny, is that you ? I am reading our young man a lecture. 
I am telling him the old vulgar proverb, that every herring should 
hang by its ain head.” 

“And there’s no a truer proverb out of the Scriptures, Miss 
Barbara,” said Mr. Monypenny, a man of middle age and grizzled, 
reddish aspect. It irritated John beyond description to perceive 
that the new-comer understood perfectly what was meant. It had 
evidently been a subject of discussion among all, from Sir James to 
the agent, who stood before him now, swaying from one leg to 
another, and meditating his own contribution to the arguments al- 
ready set forth. 

“ Miss Erskine is very right, as she always is. Whatever her 
advice may be, it will carry the sympathy of all your well-wishers, Mr. 
John, and they are just the whole county, man and woman. I can- 
not say more than that, and less would be an untruth.” 

“ I am much obliged to my well-wishers, I am sure. I could 
dispense with so much solicitude on their part,” cried John, with sub- 
dued fury. Old aunts and old friends may have privileges ; but to 
be schooled by your man of business — that was more than flesh and 
blood could bear. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

It happened after this that John Erskine, by no will of his own, , 

was drawn repeatedly into the society of the somewhat lonely pair at 
Tinto. Torrance had never been popular, though the county extend- 
ed to him that toleration which a rich man, especially when young, is 
apt to receive. There were always benevolent hopes that he might 
mend as long as he remained unmarried ; and after his marriage his || 

wife bore the blame of more than half his misdeeds. To tell the j|: 

truth, poor Carry, being so unhappy, did not take pains to concili- |ii 

ate her neighbors. Some she took up with almost feverish eager- i| 

ness, and she had two or three impassioned friends ; but she had i>j 

none of that sustaining force of personal happiness which makes it p 

possible to bear the weariness of dull country company, and she had L’;j 

not taken any particular pains to please the county ; so that, except || 

on the periodical occasions when the great rooms were thrown open j|| 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


158 

to a large party, she and her husband, so little adapted as they were 
to indemnify each other for the loss of society, lived much alone in 
their great house, with none of that coming and going which enlivens 
life. And since what he called the satisfaction which John had given 
him Torrance had experienced a sort of rough enthusiasm for his 
new neighbor. He was never weary of proclaiming him to be an 
honest fellow. That’s the way to meet a man,” he would say — 
straightforward ; if there’s any mistake, say it out.” And Erskine 
was overwhelmed with invitations to ‘Mook in as often as he 
pleased,” to ‘‘ take pot-luck,” to come over to Tinto as often as he 
wearied. Sometimes he yielded to those solicitations out of pity for 
poor Carry, who seemed, he thought, pleased to see him ; and some- 
times because, in face of this oppressive cordiality, it was difficult 
to say no. He did not enjoy these evenings ; but the soft look of 
pleasure in poor Carry’s eyes, the evident relief with which she saw 
him come in, went to John’s heart. Not a word had passed between 
them on the subject which all their neighbors discussed so fully. No 
hint of domestic unhappiness crossed Carry’s lips ; and yet it seemed 
to John that she had a kind of sisterly confidence in him. Her face 
brightened when he appeared. She did not engage him in long in- 
tellectual conversations as she did Dr. Stirling. She said, indeed, 
little at all to him, but she was grateful to him for coming, and re- 
lieved from that which she would not complain of or object to — the 
sole society of her husband. This consciousness touched John more 
than if he had been entirely in her confidence. A kind of unspoken 
alliance seemed to exist between them. 

One evening when June was nearly over in the long, never-end- 
ing Northern daylight, this tacit understanding was at once disturbed 
and intensified. John had been captured by his too cordial neigh- 
bor in the languid afternoon when he had nothing to do, and had 
been feeling somewhat drearily the absence of occupation and soci- 
ety. Torrance could not supply him with either, but his vacant 
condition left him without excuse or power to avoid the urgent 
hospitality. He had walked to Tinto in all the familiarity of county 
neighborhood, without evening dress or ceremony of any kind. They 
had dined without the epergnes and mountains of silver which Tor- 
rance loved, in the low dining-room of the old house of Tinto, which 
still existed at one end of the great modern mansion. This room 
opened on the terrace which surrounded the house, with an ease not 
possible in the lofty Grecian erection, well elevated from the ground, 
which formed the newer part. Lady Caroline, who had left the gen- 
tlemen some time before, became visible to them as they sat at their 
wine, walking up and down the terrace with her baby in her arms. 
The child had been suffering from some baby ailment, and had been 
dozing a great part of the day, which made it unwilling to yield to 
sleep when evening came. The mother had brought it out wrapped 
in a shawl, and was singing softly to lull it to rest. The scene was 
very trancfuil and sweet. Sunset reflections were hanging still about 
the sky, and a pearly brightness \vas diffused over the horizon — light 
that lo )ked as if it never meant to fade. The trees of the park lay 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


1^59 

in clustered masses at their feet, the landscape spread out like a 
map beyond, the hills rose blue against the ethereal paleness of the 
distance. Close at hand, Lady Caroline’s tall, pliant figure, so light 
and full of languid grace, yet with a suggestion of weakness which 
was always pathetic, went and came — the child’s head upon her 
shoulder, her own bent over it — moving softly, singing under her 
breath. 

The two men, sitting together, with little conversation or mutual 
interest between them, were roused by the sight of this passing 
figure. Even Tinto’s rude gaze was softened by it. He looked out 
at his wife and child with something more like human tenderness 
than was usual to him. Himself for a moment gave place in the 
foreground to this embodiment of the nearest and closest ties of 
life. He stopped in the talk which he was giving forth at large in 
his usual loud monologue, unaffected by any reply, and something 
softened the big balls of his light, projecting eyes. Let’s step 
outside and finish our cigars,” he said, abruptly. Lady Caroline 
herself looked different from her wont. The child against her heart 
soothed the pain in it : there is no such healing application. It was 
not a delightful child, but it was her own. One of its arms was 
thrown round her neck ; its head, heavy with sleep, to which it would 
not yield, now nestled into her shoulder, now rose from it, with a 
sleepy, half-peevish cry. She was wholly occupied with the little 
perverse creature, patting it with one thin, soft hand, murmuring to 
it. The little song she was crooning was contemptible so far as 
music went, but it was soft as a dove’s cooing. She had forgotten 
herself, and her woes, and her shipwrecked life. Even when that 
harsher step came out on the gravel she did not recognize it with 
her usual nervous start. All was soothed and softened in the 
magical evening calm, in the warm softness of the baby, lying against 
the ache in its mother’s heart. 

And Torrance, for a wonder, did not disturb this calm. He 
stopped to touch the child’s cheek with his finger as his wife passed 
him, but as this broke once more the partial slumber, he subsided 
into quiet with a sense of guiltiness, puffing his cigar at intervals, 
but stepping as lightly as he could with his heavy feet, and saying 
nothing. A touch of milder emotion had come to his rude bosom. 
Not only was that great park, those woods, and a large share of the 
surrounding country his own, but this woman with her baby was his, 
his property, though so much more delicate and finer than he. This 
moved him with a kind of wondering sense of the want of something 
which amid so much it might yet be possible to attain — happiness, 
perhaps, in addition to possession. His breast swelled with pride 
in the thought that even while thus engrossed in the humblest femi- 
nine occupation, like any cottager, nobody could mistake Lady Car 
Torrance for anything less than she was. They might think her a 
princess, perhaps. He did not know any princess that had that 
carriage, he said to himself ; but less or meaner, nobody could sup- 
pose her to be. And he was touched to see her with his child, her 
whole soul — that soul which had always eluded him, and retained 


i6o 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


its chill superiority to him — wrapped up in the baby, who was his as 
much as hers. There was in the air a kind of flutter of far-off wings, 
as if peace might be coming, as if happiness might be possible even 
between this ill-matched pair. 

John Erskine was the spectator in this curious domestic scene. 
He looked on with wondering, half-pleased, half-indignant observa- 
tion. He was almost angry that Carry should be lowered to the level 
of this husband of hers, even if it gave her for a time a semblance of 
happiness ; and yet his heart was touched by this possibility of 
better things. When the child went to sleep she looked up at the 
two men, with a smile. She was grateful to her husband for his 
silence, for bringing no disturbance of the quiet with him ; and 
grateful to John for having, as she thought, subdued Torrance by 
his influence. She made to them both that little offering of a grate- 
ful smile as she sat down on the garden -seat, letting the child rest 
upon her knee. The baby’s head had slid down to her arm, and it 
lay there in the complete and perfect repose which a mother’s arms, 
protecting, sustaining, warm, seem to give more than any bed. The 
air was so sweet, the quiet so profound, that Carry was pleased to 
linger out-of-doors. Not often had she shown any desire to linger in 
her husband’s society when not bound by duty to do so. This even- 
ing she did it willingly. For the moment a faux air of well-being, 
of happiness and domestic peace, seemed to pervade the earth and 
the air. ‘Mt is so sweet — it cannot do her any harm to stay out a 
little,” she said, smiling at them over the baby’s sleeping face, which 
was half hidden in the soft, fleecy white shawl that enveloped it. 
John Erskine sat down at a little distance, and Torrance stood, with 
a half humility about him, half ashamed, willing to do or say some- 
thing which would be tender and conciliatory, but not knowing how. 
They began to talk in low tones, Erskine and Carry bearing the frais 
of the conversation. Sometimes Torrance put in a word, but gener- 
ally the large puffs of his cigar were his chief contribution. He was 
willing to let them talk. Nay, he was not without a certain pleasure, 
in this softened mood of his, in hearing them talk. He would have 
allowed freely that conversation was not in his way. 

They are coming now in about ten days,” Carrie said. Of 
course they have stayed longer than they meant to stay. People 
never leave town on the appointed day.” 

There are so many people to see.” 

And so many things are put off till the last. I remember how 
hurried we were — how rapidly the days flew at the end.” 

You do not go to town now ? ” 

No,” she said, hurriedly ; “ it is no deprivation. We — neither 
of us — care for London.” 

Torrance felt a certain gratitude to his wife for thus identifying 
her inclinations with his. If truth were told, maybe that might be 
modified,” he said. I dare say you would like it. Car. You would 
get people to talk so. That’s what amuses her,” he added, with an 
explanatory glance at John. It was a novel sort of pleasure to him 
to give this amiable explanation of Lady Caroline’s peculiarities, 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


i6i 

without any of the rough satire in it with which he was accustomed 
to treat the things he did not understand ; and his constant pride in 
her found a new outlet. “ It’s not gayeties she wants, it’s conversa- 
tion,” he said, with a softened laugh. Next year we must see if we 
can’t manage it, Car.” 

She turned to him with a startled glance, not knowing whether to 
deprecate all change so far as herself was concerned, or to thank 
him for this unusual thoughtfulness. Fortunately, her instinct chose 
the latter course. It is kind of you to think of me,” she said, in 
her soft voice. In all their wretched married life they had never 
been so near before. He replied by his usual laugh, in which there 
was always a consciousness of that power of wealth which he could 
never forget he possessed. Oh yes, he would do it — he could do it 
whenever he pleased — buy pleasures for her, just as he might buy 
dresses or jewels for her, if she would take a little pains to make 
herself agreeable. But even the laugh was much softer than usual. 
She gave him a little nod over the sleeping child, in which there was 
kindness as well as an astonished gratitude. Perhaps she had never 
been so much at her ease with him before. 

They are going to fill the house in the autumn,” she said, re- 
turning to the previous subject. “ I hear of several people coming. 
A certain Lord Millefleurs ” 

‘‘ That reminds me,” said John, ‘‘ that I had a letter the other 
day — from one of our old Swiss party. You will remember him, 
Lady Caroline ” 

Here he paused, with a sudden recollection and putting together 
of various things which, in the curious inadvertence of an indifferent 
mind, he had not thought of before. This made him break off 
somewhat suddenly and raise his eyes to Carry, at whom he had 
not been looking, with an alarmed glance. 

He saw her take a large grasp, in the hand which had been laid 
softly upon it, at ease, with extended fingers, of the baby’s shawl. 
Her face, which had been so smiling and soft, grew haggard and 
wild in a moment. Her eyes seemed to look out from caverns. 
There was a momentary pause, which seemed to arouse heaven and 
earth to listen. Then her voice came into this suddenly altered, 
vigilant, suspicious atmosphere. “Who was it, Mr. Erskine ? ” 
Poor Carry tried to smile, and to keep her voice in its usual tone. 
But the arrow flying so suddenly at a venture had gone straight into 
her heart. She had no need to ask — had she not divined it all 
along ? 

“ Probably you have forgotten — his very name. It was — one of 
those fellows,” stammered John. “ I forget how little a party like 
ours was likely to interest you. Beaufort — you may remember the 
name.” 

He felt that every word he uttered — his artificial levity, his 
forced attempt to make that unimportant which only his conscious- 
ness that it was deeply important could have suggested such a treat- 
ment of, was a new folly. He was doing it for the best — most futile 
of all excuses. When he looked at her again at the end of this 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


162 

speech, not daring to meet her eyes while he gave it forth, he saw, 
to his astonishment, a rising color, a flutter of indignation, in Carry’s 
pale face. 

Surely,” she said, with a strange thrill in her voice, you do 
your friend injustice, Mr. Erskine. So far as I remember, he was 
very distinguished — far the most remarkable of the party. I do not 
think I can be mistaken.” 

‘‘ No, no, you are quite right,” John cried ; I only meant that 
— these things were much to us ; but I did not know whether you 
would recollect — whether to a lady ” 

“ You are all so contemptuous of women,” Lady Caroline said, 
with a faint smile, ‘‘ even the kindest of you. You think a lady 
would only notice frivolous excellences, and would not care for real 
distinction. That is a great mistake. It is all the other way. It 
is we who think of these things most.” 

‘‘ I beg a thousand pardons — I had no such meaning,” John said ; 
and she made him a little tremulous bow. She was so deadly pale, 
that he expected every moment to see her faint. But she did not. 
She continued, naturally calling him back to what he had been 
about to tell her : 

‘‘You had a letter from Mr. Beaufort? about — you were going 
to tell me ” 

“ About coming here,” said John, feeling that to say it out bluntly 
was now the best. “ It appears that he has a sort of charge of 
this Lord Millefleurs.” 

“ Charge of Lord — That is not a dignified position — for — your 
friend, Mr. Erskine.” 

“No. I don’t know what it means ; he has not made the prog- 
ress he ought to have made ; but there is something special about 
this,” said John, hesitating, not knowing how far to go. 

Again Lady Caroline made him a little bow. She rose, with 
some stiffness and slowness, as if in pain. “ It grows late, though it 
is so light. Baby will be better in-doors,” she said. She went quickly 
away, but wavering a little in her gait, as if she were unconscious 
of obstacles in the way, and disappeared through the window of the 
old library, which was on the same level as the dining-room. John 
stood looking after her, with a bewildering sense of guilt, and alarm 
for he knew not what. All this time Torrance had not said a word ; 
but he had taken in every word that was said, and his jealous eyes had 
noted the changes in his wife’s face. He watched her go away, as 
John did. When she had disappeared both of them listened for a 
moment in silence. Neither would have been surprised to hear a 
fall and cry ; but there was nothing. Torrance threw himself down 
heavily in the seat from which she had risen. 

“ That was' a pity, Erskine,” he said ; “ you saw that well 
enough. You can tell me the rest about this Beaumont — Beaufort 
— what do you call him ? — that you thought it best not to tell Lady 
Car.” 

“There is nothing to tell about Beaufort,” said John, “which 
Lady Caroline, or any lady, might not hear.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


163 

Now just you look here, John Erskine,” said Tinto, projecting 
his big eyes, I thought you were he — that is the truth. She told 
me there was somebody. I thought it was you, and I was determined 
to be at the bottom of it. Now, here’s the man, beyond a doubt, 
and you know it as well as I do.” 

“ I don’t know it at all,” cried John, which probably is as 
much as you do. Can you suppose I should have spoken to Lady 
Caroline as I did if I had supposed — believed — known anything 
at all ? ” 

‘‘ I will say,” said Torrance, that you’re an honest fellow. That 
stands to reason. You wouldn’t have opened your mouth if you had 
thought — but then you never thought till after you had spoken. 
Then you saw it as well as me.” 

Torrance ! ” cried John, for Heaven’s sake, don’t imagine 
things that were never thought of! I know nothing about it — 
absolutely nothing. Even had there been anything in it, it is six 
years ago — it is all over ; it never can have had anything to say to 
you ” 

“ Oh, as for that,” said Torrance, ^Hf you think I’ve any fear of 
Lady Car going wrong, set your mind at rest on that point. No fear 
of Lady Car. If you suppose I’m jealous, or that sort of thing” — 
and here he laughed, insolent and dauntless. I thought it was 
you,” he said — I don’t see why I should conceal that — I thought it 
was you. And if you think I would have shut her ladyship up, or 
challenged you — not a bit of it, my fine fellow ! I meant to have 
asked you here — to have seen you meet — to have taken my fun out 
of it. I’m no more afraid of Lady Car than I am of myself. Afraid ! 
— not one bit. She shall see just as much of him as possible, if he 
comes here. I mean to ask him to the house. I mean to have him 
to dinner daily. You can tell him so, with my compliments. You 
needn’t say any more to Lady Car ; but as for me, there’s 
nothing I’d enjoy more. Tutoring, is he? ” Torrance said, with a 
sort of chuckle of wrathful enjoyment : and he cast an eye over his 
demesne, with a glow of proud satisfaction upon his face. 

The sentiment of the evening calm had altogether disappeared. 
The peace of nature was broken up ; a sense of human torture, 
human cruelty, was in the air. It was as if a curtain had been lifted 
in some presence-chamber and the rack disclosed beneath. Tor- 
rance lounged back — with his hands in his pockets, his cheeks 
inflamed, his great eyes rolling — in the seat from which poor Carry 
with her baby had risen. His mind, which had been softened, 
touched to better things, and which had even begun to think of 
means and ways of making her happier, turned in a moment to more 
familiar preoccupations. To have him here — he* who was merely 
‘‘ tutoring,” a genteel attendant upon a foolish young lord — to exhibit 
him, probably penniless, probably snubbed by everybody around, a 
dependant, a man without position or wealth — was an idea altogether 
delightful to him. It was, indeed, a fierce delight, a cruel pleasure ; 
but it was more congenial to his mind than the unnatural softness of 
the hour before. 


164 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


And was it all John Erskine’s doing ? — his foolishness, his want 
of thought ? When he left Torrance in disgust, and hurried away 
along the now familiar avenue, where he no longer took any wrong 
turns, his foolishness and thoughtlessness overwhelmed him. To be 
sm-e ! — a thousand recollections rushed upon his mind. He had 
known it all along, and how was it that he had not known it ? The 
moment he had committed himself and begun to speak of Beaufort's 
letter, that moment he had foreseen everything that followed— just as 
poor Carry had read what was coming in his first sentence. It was 
he who had disturbed the evening calm — the rapprochement of the 
two who, doomed as they were to live their lives together, ought by 
all about them to be helped to draw near each other. Full of these 
disquieting thoughts, he was skirting a clump of thick shrubbery at 
some distance from the house, when something glided out from 
among the bushes and laid a sudden light touch upon his arm. He 
was already in so much excitement that he could not suppress a cry 
of alarm, almost terror. There was no light to distinguish anything, 
and the dark figure was confused with the dark foliage. Almost be- 
fore the cry had left his lips John entreated pardon. ‘‘You are — 
breathing the evening air,” he said, confused, “ now that the little 
one is asleep.” 

But she had no leisure for any vain pretences. “ Mr. Erskine,” 
she said, breathless, “ do not let him come — ask him not to come ! 
I have come out to tell you. I could not say it — there.” 

“ I will do whatever you tell me. Lady Caroline.” 

“ I know you will be kind. This makes me very miserable. Oh, 
it is not that I could not meet him ! It is because I know my hus- 
band has an idea — not that he is jealous — and he does not mean to 
be cruel — but he has an idea — He would like to look on, to watch. 
That is what I could not bear. Tell him, Mr. Erskine — beg him — 
of all places in the world, not to come here.” 

“ He will not come, I am sure, to give you a moment’s uneasi- 
ness.” 

“ Mr. Erskine, I must say more to you,” she said, drawing closer, 
putting once more her hand on his arm. “ It must not be on that 
ground — nothing must be said of me. Cannot you understand ? 
He must not come ; but not because of me — nothing must be said 
of me. If it was your sister, oh would you not understand ? ” 

He took her hand into his in the profound feeling of the moment. 

I will try to do — what I should do if it were my own sister,” he 
said, resting it in liis. “ It was my fault ; I ought to have known.” 

“ There was no fault,” she said, faintly ; “an accident. I knew 
it must happen some time. I was — prepared. But, Mr. Erskine, 
it is not because *1 could not meet — any one. Do not think that for 
me only — It is because — because — But if you understand, that is 
all.” 

“ Let me walk back with you to the house,” John said. 

“ No, no ; it is almost wrong to speak to you in this clandestine 
way. But what can I do ? And you who know — all parties — If I 
said anything to my brother, it might make a breach. There is no 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 165 

one I could speak to but you. I should have had to suffer helplessly, 
to hold my peace.” 

“ Believe me — believe me,” cried John, all that a brother can 
do, I will do.” 

In the midst of this misery, which he felt to the bottom of his 
heart, there ran through him a secret stir of pleasure. Her 
brother ! — the suggestion went through all his veins. Strange en- 
counter of the dream with the fact ! The cold, .trembling hand he 
held in his gave him a thrill of warmth and happiness, and yet his 
sympathy was as strong, his pity as profound, as one human creat- 
ure ever felt for another. He stood still and watched her as she 
flitted back to the house, like a shadow in the gathering darkness. 
His heart ached, yet beat high. If it should ever be so, how differ- 
ent would be the fate of the other daughter of Lindores !— how he 
would guard her from every vexation, smooth every step of her way, 
strew it with flowers and sweetnesses ! He resumed' his way more 
quickly than ever, hastening along in the soft darkness which yet 
was not dark, by the Scaur — the short cut which had alarmed his 
groom. To the pedestrian the way by the Scaur was the best way. 
He paused a moment when he reached it to look out through the 
opening in the trees over the broad country, lying like a dream in 
that mystical paleness which was neither night nor day. Under- 
neath, the river rushed joyously, noisily, through the night — not 
still, like a Southern stream, but dashing over the stones, and whirl- 
ing its white eddies in foam against the bank. The sound of the 
water accompanied the quick current of his thoughts. He had a 
long walk before him, having come without preparation and left in 
haste and displeasure. But seven or eight miles of country road in 
a night of June is no such punishment. And the thoughts that had 
been roused in him made the way short. How different — how differ- 
ent would be the fate of that other daughter of Lindores ! It was 
only when he reached his own gate that he woke up, with a start, to 
remember indeed how different it would be. The bare little white 
house, with its little plantation, its clump of firs on the hill-top, its 
scanty avenue — the little estate, which could almost be said, with 
scornful exaggeration, to lie within the park of Tinto — the position 
of a small squire’s wife — was it likely that Lord Lindores would smile 
upon that for his daughter ? John’s heart, which had been so 
buoyant, sunk down into the depths. He began to see that his 
dream was ridiculous, his elation absurd. He to be the brother, in 
that sweetest way, of Carry Lindores ! But nevertheless he vowed, 
as he went home somewhat crestfallen, that he would be a brother 
to her. She had given him her confidence, and he had given her 
his promise, and with this bond no worldly prudence nor rule of pro- 
babilities should be allowed to interfere. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


i66 


CHAPTER XIX. 

John Erskine woke with the singing of the birds on the morn- 
ing of Midsummerrday. It was early — far before any civilized hour 
of waking. When he suddenly opened his eyes in the sweet strange- 
ness of that unearthly moment the sensation came back to his mind 
of childish wakings in summer mornings long departed ; of getting 
up in the unutterable stillness with the sense of being the first ad- 
venturer into an unknown world ; of stealing down-stairs through 
the silent, visionary house, all full of unseen sleepers, like ghosts 
behind the closed doors ; of finding, with heart beating and little 
hands trembling, half with alarm, half with delight, the bolt low down 
on some easily opened door ; and of stepping out into the sweet dews, 
into the ineffable glory of sunshine, in which there was no shadow 
but that little one which was his own. Nobody alive, nobody awake, 
except that riot of the birds in every tree which wounded the ideal 
sense of unearthly calm, yet gave a consolatory consciousness of life 
and motion in the strange quiet, though a life incomprehensible, a lan- 
guage unknown. Strange that this was the first recollection brought 
to him in his waking, for the next was very different. The next was 
a confused, sweet tumult in the air, a sound in his ears, an echo in 
his heart : They are coming ! they are coming ! ’’ He could not 
feel sure that somewhere or other in the words there were not joy- 
bells ringing^ — a tinkle of chimes, now rising, now falling, as if a 
door were shut between us and the sound.” They are coming ! ” 
everything seemed to say. The air of the morning blowing in by the 
open window puffed it at him with playful sweetness. The birds 
sung it, the trees shaped their rustlings to the words, They are 
coming ! ” 

Wei], it was perfectly true. The Earl and Countess of Lindores, 
and their daughter Lady Edith Lindores, and perhaps their son Lord 
Rintoul, and it might be other noble persons in their train, were cer- 
tainly expected to arrive that day ; but what was that to John Erskine 
of Dalrulzian, a country gentleman of the most moderate pretensions, 
with nothing about him above mediocrity, and no claim to any part 
or share in the life led by these great people ? For the moment John 
did not ask himself that question. He only felt after this long inter- 
val of solitude and abandonment that they were coming back. He had 
been, as it were, shipwrecked in this country wuth which he w^as so little 
acquainted, though it was his ow^n country ; and the time of their 
absence had appeared very long to him. He said to himself their 
absence — but it will be understood that the absence of Lord Lindores, 
for example, had very little importance to the young man. He would 
not have been deeply concerned if that nobleman had been induced 
to serve his country and his party in any other sphere. But it was 
safer, easier to say their y and to make to himself a little picture of 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


167 


the re-opening of the house, the feeling of population and warmth that 
would breathe about it, the chance even of meeting any day or hour 
smiles and pleasant looks on the very road, and a sense of society in 
the atmosphere. He tried to persuade himself that this was what he 
was thinking of, or rather he refused to enter into any analysis of his 
feelings at all, and allowed his mind to float upon a vague and de- 
lightful current of anticipations, which he preferred not to examine 
too closely, or put into any certain and definite form. 

John had not seen either Lady Caroline or her husband since that 
unlucky evening. When he returned home and took out once more 
Beaufort’s letter, it seemed to him that he could now read between 
the lines enough to have enlightened him as to the real state of affairs. 
Why should Beaufort hesitate to accept Lord Lindores’s invitation, 
and ask to be received into a much humbler house, if there had been 
no stringent reason for such a preference ? Beaufort had been yery 
cautious in the wording of his letter. He said it was entirely uncer- 
tain whether he could make up his mind to come at all ; whether, 
indeed, in the circumstances he ought to come. He explained the 
position in which he stood to Lord Millefleurs — not his tutor, which 
would have been ridiculous, but his friend, to whom, to please his 
father, the young man paid a certain deference. The control which 
he thus exercised was merely nominal, Beaufort added, and quite un- 
necessary, since nobody could be more capable of taking care of 
himself than Millefleurs ; but it was a satisfaction to the duke — and 
as his future prospects depended upon the duke’s favor, Beaufort did 
not need to point out to his friend the expediency on his part of do- 
ing what that potentate required. He was unwilling to relinquish 
all these prospects, and the permanent appointment which he could 
confidently expect from the duke’s favor ; but still, at the same time, 
there were reasons which might make him do so, and he was not at 
all sure that it would not be better to make this sacrifice than to in- 
trude himself where he was not wanted in the capacity of attendant 
on Lord Millefleurs. Thus, he explained elaborately twice over, his 
coming at all was quite uncertain ; but if he did decide to come, it 
would be an advantage and ease to him in every way to be sure of a 
pied-a-terre in his friend’s house, instead of being forced to thrust 
himself into a party where his presence was only invited as an ap- 
pendage to his charge. 

It had occurred to John to wonder why there was so much hesita- 
tiod in Beaufort’s mind as to an ordinary visit ; but he had accepted 
it, as a susceptibility natural enough to such a mind — with perhaps 
a little inconvenient recollection of those far-past days in which he 
had been admitted so entirely into the intimacy of the family which 
it was possible enough he might dislike to visit on another standing. 
But now he saw what was the true meaning of the anxious, cautious 
letter. Beaufort’s object had been to ascertain from him how the 
circumstances stood ; whether he ought or ought not to show himself 
among people who once held to him such very different relations. 
The light of poor Carry’s haggard face threw illumination upon the 
whole matter. And what was he to reply ? 


i68 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


It might give the reader but a poor idea of John’s intellect if I 
were to tell how long it took him to concoct his reply. Never had a 
task so difficult fallen into his hands. It was not his part to betray 
Carry’s alarm and distress, or her husband’s fierce and vindictive 
gratification in this new way of humbling her. He assured Beaufort 
diplomatically that Dalrulzian was at his entire command then and 
always, but owned that he saw all the difficulties of the position, and 
felt that his friend had a delicate part to play. To appear as bear- 
leader to Millefleurs among people who had known him in different 
circumstances would of itself be disagreeable, and all the more that 
the position was nominal, and he had in reality nothing to do. John 
had known Millefleurs at Eton, where he was always the drollest 
little beggar, but quite able to take care of himself. It was too funny 
to find him cropping up again. But to waste such talents as yours,” 
he cried, with the greatest sincerity, looking after Millefleurs ! ” 
The duke ought indeed to show his gratitude for such self-abnegation. 

Thus John went on for a page or two, allowing it to be seen that 
he thought the position undesirable, and that he did not encourage 
Beaufort’s appearance in it. Of course you know beforehand that 
my house is yours in all circumstances,” he repeated — that goes 
without saying ; ” but even this was so put that it seemed to say, 
not come,” but stay away.” It was not a pleasant office to John. 
To be inhospitable, to shut his doors upon a friend, was unspeakably 
painful to him. It was something of which he had thought that he 
never could be guilty. He longed to modify this coldness by some 
explanation of what he meant, but he dared not. He had promised 
to be a brother to Carry, and was it possible that he should betray her ? 
It seemed to him that he was betraying Beaufort instead, who was 
more to him than Carry had ever been — pretending to open his doors 
to him with one hand while he closed them with another. In such 
circumstances a letter is very hard to write. Two or three copies of 
it were written before one was produced good enough to be sent. At 
least he put together the best version of his plea which he could ac- 
complish, and sent it off very doubtfully. He might be losing his 
friend. Beaufort could not fail to see the want of welcorne in it, and 
he could not be sure that it would save Carry, after all. 

All this had passed some time before the day of the return, and 
John was convinced at heart that the purpose of his letter had been ac- 
complished ; that Beaufort had understood him, and intended rather 
to sacrifice his prospects than to make his appearance in a false 
position. John was satisfied, and yet he was wounded to think that 
he had been the means of wounding his friend. This, however, and 
all connected with it — all the painful part of his life and of theirs, so 
far as he was acquainted with it — passed out of his mind in the ex- 
citement and elation of the consciousness that this day he should see 
them ” again. 

John spent the morning in a kind of suppressed ecstacy, alto- 
gether out of reason. He did not even ask himself what their return 
was to him. What it was to him ! — a change of heaven and earth, a 
filling up of the veins of life and quickening of every faculty. He 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


169 


did all he had to do in the morning, with the consciousness of 
this coming event running through everything, filling up every mo- 
ment with that altogether foolish elation and rapture. For this it 
was : a kind of subtle penetration of every thought by something 
which was nothing — by an air, a breath, as from the celestial fields. 

They were to arrive about three o’clock, and John’s foolish ecs- 
tacy lasted till about the moment when, if he were going to meet 
them, it was time to set off for the station. He had taken his hat in 
his hand, with a vague smile about the corners of his mouth, a light 
in his eyes, and was just about to step forth for this happy purpose, 
when there sudddenly struck him like a blow this question — What 
right have you to go to meet them ? ” He was so entirely taken 
aback by it that he retreated a step, as if some one in actual bodily 
presence had put the question to him, and opposed his exit. He 
gazed around him once, appalled, to see where it came from ; but, 
alas ! it came from nowhere — from a monitor more intimate than any 
intruder could be — from his own judgment, which seemed to have 
been lying dormant while his imagination and heart were at work. 
What right had he to go to meet them ? Was he a relative, a retainer, 
a member of the family in any way ? What was he to the Lindores, 
or they to him ? Everything, but nothing : a neighbor in the county, 
a friend that they were so good as to be very kind to ; but this gave 
him nothing as a right — only the position of gratitude — no more. 

He stood in a confusion of doubt and pain for ten minutes in his 
own hall. There seemed an invisible barrier before his feet, some- 
thing which prevented him from moving. His smile turned to a 
sort of deprecating, appealing gaze — to whom ? to nobody — to him- 
self ; for was it not indeed he, and only he, that stopped his own 
steps ? At last he stepped out boldly, flinging scruples to the winds. 
Why should he say to any one, even himself, that he was going to 
meet them ? Nobody could prevent him walking along the high- 
road where everybody walked ; and if they came that way, and he 
by chance encountered them ? — The smile returned to John’s mouth, 
lurking behind his soft, young, silky mustache. In that case it 
would be ludicrous to think that there could be anything wrong. 
Saying which to himself he hurried down the avenue, feeling that the 
ten minutes’ delay was enough to have made him late. He walked 
on quickly, like a man with a serious object, his heart beating, his 
pulse going at full speed. For a long way off he watched a white 
plume of steam floating across the landscape. He could see it 
creeping along for miles, stopping now and then, taking little runs 
as if to amuse itself. No, that was not the train, but only one of 
those stray locomotives which torment expectant spectators by 
wandering wildly up and down like spirits of mischief. Before he 
reached the station Lady Caroline’s carriage drove past, and. she 
bent forward to smile and wave her hand to John. But this encour- 
aging gesture brought back all his personal doubts ; she was going 
by right of nature. And.even Torrance had a right to come, though 
he had no affection for any of them, nor they for him. 

Once more John lingered and delayed. He knew very well they 
8 


170 


TffE LADIES LINDORES. 


would be pleased to see him ; and if an extreme desire to see them 
and welcome them justified his going, then surely he had that right. 
But the earl would look politely surprised ; and Rintoul, if Rintoul 
was there, would look broadly at him with that stony British stare 
which petrifies an intruder. John did not at all like the idea of Rin- 
toul. If there is a natural sense of opposition (as people say) 
between women who maybe considered rival beauties, the sentiment 
is so natural a one that it is shared by that sex which is so much the 
nobler ; and as woman sees through a woman’s wiles, so does a man 
see through the instincts of another man. John felt that Rintoul 
would see through him — that he would set up an instant opposition 
and hostility — that he would let him perceive that where Edith was, 
a small country squire, a little Scotch laird, had no business to push 
himself in. Rintoul, when John knew him, had been an innocent 
little lieutenant — as innocent as a lieutenant could be expected to 
be ; yet he knew very well by instinct that this was what was to be 
expected from him. And what if he were there to change the char- 
acter of the group ? 

John’s pace slackened at the thought. From the moment when 
Lady Caroline’s carriage passed him he went slower and slower — 
still, indeed, turning his face toward the station, but almost hoping 
that the train would arrive before he did. However, country trains 
are not of that expeditious character. They do not anticipate the 
hour, nor the appearance of those who are coming to meet them. 
When he reached the entrance of the station it was not yet in sight, 
and he had no farther excuse for dallying. But he did not go in. 
He walked up behind to a spot where he could see without being seen, 
and there waited, with a sense of humiliation, yet eagerness. It was 
a very undignified position. If he meant to meet them, he should 
have done it openly ; if he did not intend to do so, he ought to have 
gone away. But John did neither : he watched them coming with 
his heart in his mouth ; but he did not go forward to greet them 
when they came. He saw them get out of the carriage one by one. 
He saw the hurried embrace and greeting ofXady Carto her mother 
and sister. Then there could not be any doubt about it. Edith gave 
a searching glance all about, sweeping the highway with her glance 
both up and down. She was lookihg for some one. Who was it ? 
Something of the elation of the morning came back into his mind. 
For whom was she looking? She even stood for a moment shading 
her eyes with her hand before she followed her mother to the car- 
riage, to cast another glance around her. Could it be that she was 
looking for — oh, never mind who she was looking for, John cried to 
himself, springing over a wall or two, and speeding along by all the 
turns he could think of, till he reached a point of the road where he 
turned and came quickly back. He had resolution enough to forego 
the greeting at that first moment of arrival ; but the chance of still 
seeing them, and thus saving both his pride and his pleasure, seduced 
him from all higher thoughts of self-abnegation. He walked on 
slowly, but with his heart beating, and at length heard the roll of 
the wheels coming toward him, the sound of voices in the air. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


171 

The family were all together in one carriage, all joyful and beam- 
ing in the reunion. Even Lady Car’s pale face was lighted with 
smiles ; and Lord Lindores, if he did not take much part in the 
family talk, did not frown upon it. The coachman drew up of him- 
self as John appeared, and Lady Lindores called to him almost 
before the carriage stopped. “Late, Mr. Erskine— late ! ” she 
cried. “ Carry told us you were coming to meet us.” John was 
half wounded, half consoled by the accusation ; he could not hear 
himself blamed without an impulse of self-defence. “ Indeed I was 
not late ; I saw you arrive ; but I thought — you might think — it 
seemed presumptuous for me to thrust myself in.” Why, here is 
chivalry!” said Lady Lindores, with a smile, giving him her hand. 
And then the flutter of conversation was resumed, one voice inter- 
rupting another, putting questions to which there was no answer, 
and making statements to which nobody paid any attention. John 
stood and nodded and smiled by the side of the carriage for a minute 
or two. And then that moving little world of expressive faces, of 
hasty words, understood a demi-mot^ of hearts so closely united, yet 
so different, swept past him again with ringing of the horses’ hoofs 
and jingle of the harness, and lively murmur of the voices. It swept 
past, and John was left — why, just as he had been before — ^just as 
he knew he would be left — out of it — altogether out of it — as he 
knew very well he should be. He walked along the way he had been 
going, away from his own house, away from anywhere that he could 
possibly want to go, plodding very silently and solemnly along, as if he 
had some serious purpose, but meaning nothing — thinking of nothing. 

What a fool he was ! Had he even for a moment expected to be 
taken away with them, to follow them up to Lindores, to be admitted 
into all their first talk and confidence? Not he: he had known 
well enough that his place was outside — that a roadside greeting, a 
genial smile, a kindly hand held out, was all the share he could 
have in the pleasure of the home-coming. Nothing more — what 
could there be more ? He knew all that as well as he knew any- 
thing. Why, then, was he such an idiot as to walk on, mile after 
mile, he did not know where, with his head down, and the most 
deadly seriousness depicted on his countenance ? At length he 
burst into a sudden short laugh, and turning back went home slowly. 
Never had his house looked so dreary, so secluded, so shut in be- 
fore. He went in and ate his dinner humbly, without a word (so 
people say) to throw at a dog. He had been quite aware that he 
was to dine alone, he knew exactly the dimensions of the room, the 
shabby air of the old furniture, the lowness of the roof— why, then, 
should he have been so depressed by all these familiar objects ? 
There was nothing at all to account for it, except that event which 
had filled him with such delightful anticipations, and brightened 
earth and heaven to him this morning. They were coming home. 
They had come kome. This, which was enough to change the very 
temperature, and turn earth into heaven, was now the cause of a 
depth of moral depression which seemed to cloud the very skies ; 
and this without any unkindness, any oifence, anything that he had 


172 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


not fully expected, and been certain would happen. But human 
nature is very fantastic, and so it was. 

You would hear, sir,” said old Rolls, that my lord and her 
ladyship they’ve come home ? ” 

‘‘Oh yes ; I have just met them ; all very well and very bright,” 
said John, trying to assume an air of satisfaction. What he did suc- 
ceed in putting on was a look of jaunty and defiant discontent. 

“ They would naturally be bright coming out of that weary Lon- 
don to their own place,” said Rolls, with grave approbation. And 
then he added, after a pause, “ You’ll be thinking now, sir, of mak- 
ing some return of a’ the ceevilities that’s been shown you ? ” 

“ Making a return ? ” This was a new idea to John. He looked 
up at the Mentor who condescended to wait upon him, with alarm 
and almost awe. “ To be sure — you are quite right. Rolls,” he said, 
with humility ; “I wonder I did not think of it before. But can 
we ? ” John looked round ruefully at his old walls. 

“Can we?” cried Rolls, in high disdain. “You neither ken 
me, nor Bauby, nor yet yourself, to ask such a question. If we can ! 
That can we ! If you’ll take my advice, ye’ll include a’ classes, sir. 
Ye’ll have the elders to their denner ; and the youngsters, ye’ll give a 
ball to them.” 

“A ball!” cried John, opening his eyes. The boldness of the 
suggestion, the determined air with which Rolls faced his master, 
setting down his foot as one who was ready to face all dangers for 
the carrying out of a great design, touched the humorous sense in the 
young man’s mind. He laughed, forgetting the previous burden of 
his desolation. “ But how to give a ball. Rolls,” he said, “ in this 
small house ? ” 

“ I ask your pardon, sir,” said Rolls, gravely. “ In the light o’ 
Tinto maybe it’s a small house ; but Tinto never was a popular 
place. Oh ay, there were balls there when he was a seeker himseP 
— I’m meaning when he was looking out for a wife, before he mar- 
ried Jier ladyship, poor thing ! But this is not a small house, if ye 
consider the other houses, where everything that’s lightsome goes on. 
And it’s you that’s the seeker now. You’re wanting a leddy yoursel’ 
— that stands to reason.” 

Here John felt that he ought to be angry and shut the mouth of 
so inappropriate a counsellor. But Rolls had no sense of his own 
inappropriateness. He went on calmly, notwithstanding the laugh 
and exclamation with which his master interrupted him. 

“ That’s aye an attraction,” said the old servant. “ I’m not say- 
ing, sir — though I think far more of you in a moral point of view — that 
ye’re the equal of Tinto as a worldly question. Na, we must keep a 
hold of reason. Ye’re no a grand catch like the like o’ him. But ye’re 
far better : ye’re a son-in-law any gentleman in the country-side 
might be proud o’ ; and any lady, which is far mair important ” 

“ Come, Rolls, no more of this,” cried John. “ A joke is a joke, 
but you know you are going too far.” 

“ Me joking ! I’m most serious in earnest, sir, if you’ll believe me. 
I served the house before you were born. I was here when your father 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


173 


brought his wife home. Na, I’m not joking. I’m thinking what’s best 
for my maister and the credit of the house. The haill county will 
come ; and if ye think we’re not enough to wait upon them, there’s 
Andrew will put on his blacks; and that sma’ groom of yours — I 
would have likit him bigger — is a smart lad, though he’s little. The 
three of us will do fine. I would recommend a denner, say the 
Wednesday. I’m fond of the middle of the week, no’ too near the 
Sabbath-day, neither one side nor the other. The denner on Wed- 
nesday, and syne on Thursday night the ball. There would be 
cauld things left that would eke out the supper, and it would all be 
like one expense. The fiddlers you could have from Dundee, or 
even Edinburgh. And the eatables — there would be no difficulty 
about that. We mostly have them within ourselves. Chickens is aye 
the staple at a supper. And I make bold to say, sir, though she is 
my sister, that there’s no person can tell what Bauby Rolls is capable 
of till they’ve seen her try.” 

Rolls,” cried John,‘‘ your ideas are too magnificent ; you take 
away my breath.” 

No a bit, sir ; no a bit,” said Rolls, encouragingly if ye’ll 
leave it to me I’ll take all the trouble. We have always said — Bauby 
and me — that if we were just left to ourselves — You will make out 
the list, sir, and settle the day, and send the invitations ; and if I 
might advise, I would say to consult with Miss Barbara, who nat- 
urally would come over for the occasion, as being your next friend, 
and take the place of the mistress ; and to send for some of your 
friends (I would recommend officers for choice) would not be a bad 
thing ; for young men are aye scarce in the country, mair especially 
at this time of the year. We could put up half a dozen,” Rolls pro- 
ceeded, ‘‘and trouble nobody ; and that would be a great help, if 
they were good dancers, and fine lads — which I make no doubt, 
sir,” he added, with a little inclination of his head, “ friends o’ yours 
would be.” 

This unexpected new idea was of great service to John in the 
dreariness of the long summer evening. He laughed loud and 
long, and was infinitely tickled by the gravity of the project, in which 
Rolls saw no laughing matter ; but when he strolled listlessly along 
the Walk in the long, long, endless light, with no better companion 
than a cigar, with wistful eyes which sought the clear, wistful hori- 
zon far away, and thoughts that seemed to fill the whole wide atmos- 
phere with an unreal yet unconquerable sadness, the idea of making 
this silence gay, and seeing her here who had come home, who had 
changed the world, but not for him ; but who yet for him — who 
could tell? — might still turn earth into heaven — seized upon him with 
a curious charm. A ball at Dalrulzian would not be a very magni- 
ficent entertainment, nor was there anything very elevated or poet- 
ical in the idea. But there are certain conditions of mind and mom- 
ents of life in which that vague terrestrial paradise which belongs to 
youth is always very close at hand, and ready to descend by the 
humblest means, by almost any machinery, out of the skies, making 
of the commonest territory enchanted ground. 


174 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


CHAPTER XX. 

They were very glad to see him — very kind to him — impossible 
to be kinder ; ready to enter into all their experiences of town, and 
to find out who were the people he knew among their friends, and 
to discuss all their amusements and occupations. Perhaps the fact 
that there were few people with whom they could discuss these pro- 
ceedings had something to do with it ; for the county in general went 
little to town, and was jealous and easily offended by the superior 
privileges of others. But this was a cynical view to take of the 
friendly effusion of the ladies when John paid them the visit which 
he thought he had timed religiously, so as neither to be too early, as 
presuming on the intimacy they had accorded him, nor too late, 
as showing any indifference to it. No such calculation was in the 
cordial greeting he received from Lady Lindores. ‘‘You are a 
great deal too timid, Mr. Erskine,^’ she said. “ No, it is not a fault 
for a young man — but you know what I mean. You would not come 
to meet us though you were there, and you have let two days pass 
without coming to see us. Fie ! As your aunt Barbara says, you 
should have more confidence in your friends.” 

Was it possible to be more encouraging, more delightful than 
this ? And then they plunged into tire inevitable personalities which 
are so offensive to outsiders, but which people with any mutual 
knowledge of a certain restricted society are scarcely able to refrain 
from. “ You know the Setons. There have been great changes 
among them. Two of the girls are married. To whom ? Well, I 
scarcely remember. Yes, to be sure. Sir Percy Faraway married 
the eldest, and they went off to California on their wedding-trip. And 
Charley is with his regiment at Cabul. Old lady Seton, the grand- 
mother — you know that delightful old lady — is — ” and so on, and so 
on. The county people thought, with strong disapproval, that for 
intelligent people like the Lindores, who gave themselves airs on 
this score, it was both frivolous and derogatory to talk so much 
about individuals ; but John, who knew the individuals, was not so 
critical. 

“ Rintoul has come with us,” said Lady Lindores. “ He has 
paused on the way to pay a little visit ; but we expect him this 
evening. He will stay only a very short time ; but he is coming 
back again in August, when the house will be full.” 

John made a little bow, and no reply. He did not care for the 
intelligence. Rintoul, he felt instinctively, would be no friend to 
him. And in the little contrariety produced by this he, too, brought 
forth his piece of news. “ I heard of one of your visitors — Lord 
Millefleurs. He was my fag at Eton, and the drollest little fellow. 
How has he grown up ? I have not seen him since the Eton days.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


I7S 

He is droll still — like a little fat robin-red-breast, said Edith, 
with a laugh. 

Lady Lindores checked her daughter with a look. He is — 
odd,” she said, but very original and — entertaining.” She had 
begun in her heart to feel that something was worth sacrificing to 
the chance of seeing Edith a duchess. They say he has been a 
king of prodigal — but a very virtuous one — wandering over the 
world to see life, as he calls it — a very diiferent thing from what 
many of you young men call life, Mr. Erskine.” 

John felt nettled, he did not quite know why. I am glad to 
know Millefleurs has become so interesting,” he said. ‘‘The only 
thing that now gives him interest to me is that I hear Beaufort — you 
will perhaps recollect Beaufort, Lady Lindores ” 

The two ladies started a little, then gave each other a mutually 
warning look. “ Indeed I remember Mr. Beaufort very well,” said 
Lady Lindores, shaking her head — “ very well. We have seen him 
— seen a good deal of him lately. He is perhaps coming here.” 

“ But we hope not,” said Edith, under her breath. 

“ Edith, you must not say anything so unkind.” 

“ Oh, mamma, what is the use of pretending to Mr. Erskine ? 
Either he knows already or he will be sure to find it out.” 

“ There is nothing to find out,” said Lady Lindores, hastily ; and 
then her countenance melted, and she turned to John, holding out 
her hand. “You are an old friend — and I am sure you are a true 
friend, Mr. Erskine.” 

“ I am sure I am true,” he said. 

“ Yes, I know it — I know it. Mr. Erskine, there was — something 
between Carry and Mr. Beaufort. You guessed it even if you did 
not know ? But afterward it became impossible. Her father ob- 
jected — as he had a good right to object. And now you know every- 
thing is changed. We women, who take all these things so much to 
heart — we don’t want Mr. Beaufort to come here. We think it 
might be painful. Lord Lindores, who has probably never given 
the subject another thought, has invited him to come with Lord 
Millefleurs. You know he is acting as a sort of — best friend to 
Lord Millefleurs.” 

“ I must tell you now, on my side, that I have heard from Beau- 
fort,” said John. “ He wrote to me asking to come to Dalrulzian, if 
it was decided that he should come north at all. I answered him 
that I did not think he had better come. Pardon me, there was no 
betrayal. He did not explain — nor did I explain. I could not ; it 
was a mere — intuition with me. I can scarcely tell, even, what 
induced me to do it. I thought he would find everything so different, 
and get no pleasure out of it. I told him he might come to Dalrul- 
zian whenever he liked ; but I think I showed him that it would be 
better not to do so. So that is all I know of it. Lady Lindores.” 

She looked somewhat anxiously in his face. Was that all he 
knew? Edith, who had been a keen spectator of the latter part of 
this conversation, shook her head slightly, with a faint, incredulous 
smile ; but Lady Lindores saw no reason to doubt him. She an- 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


176 

swered with a little excitement and agitation. You were quite 
right, Mr. Erskine — no pleasure, especially to him. He could not 
but feel the difference, indeed. Thanks for your kind and sensible 
advice to him. I hope he will take it. Naturally we had a delicacy 
— ” And here she looked again at her daughter, who made no reply. 
Edith had in some points more insight than her mother, and she had 
been reading John’s meaning in his looks, while his other listener 
considered his words only. Edith thought enough had been made of 
Beaufort. She changed the immediate subject with a laugh, which 
provoked Lady Lindores. 

Will Lord Millefleurs,” she said, ‘‘be permitted, do you think, 
mother, to come by himself? Is it safe to allow him to run about by 
himself? He is a dangerous little person, and one never knows what 
is the next wild thing he may do.” 

“You are speaking very disrespectfully of Lord Millefleurs,” said 
Lady Lindores, provoked. 

“ I never intended to be respectful,” Edith said. But her mother 
was really annoyed, and put a summary conclusion to the talk. She 
was angry because her daughter’s opinions had not changed, as her 
own, all imperceptibly and within herself, had done. Lady Lindores 
had gone through a great deal on account of the little marquis, whom 
she had persisted so long in thinking a nice boy. Rintoul’s sermons 
had become almost beyond endurance before they left London, and 
even her husband had intimated to her that she was treating a very 
important suitor far too lightly. 

It is hard for a sympathetic woman to remain uninfluenced, even 
when she disapproves of them, by the sentiments expressed around 
her. Millefleurs had become of additional importance in her eyes 
unconsciously, unwillingly almost, with every word that was said. 
And when she had no longer his plump little finger before her eyes 
— when he was left behind, and his amusing personal peculiarities 
were veiled over by distance — she ceased to have the relief of that 
laugh which had always hitherto delivered her from too grave a con- 
sideration of this subject. The idea of paying court to any man 
(much less a fat boy !), in order to secure him as a husband for Edith, 
was revolting to her mind ; but, worried and troubled as she was on 
the subject. Lady Lindores fell, first, into the snare of feeling, with 
relief, that to escape from farther persecution of the same kind was 
an advantage worth a sacrifice; and, second, that Millefleurs, if he 
was fat, was good and true, and that to be a duchess ‘was something 
when all that could be said was said against it. For, to be sure, the 
season in town had its influences, and she was more susceptible to 
the attractions of greatness, wealth, and high title before it than 
after. Indeed, he was not the husband she would have desired for 
her child ; and she wanted — imprudent woman ! — no. husband at all 
for her child, who was the chief consolation left to her in the world. 
Still, if Edith must marry, as Rintoul said — if she must marry to in- 
crease the family importance and influence, which was what Lord 
Lindores had insisted upon in respect to that pitiful sacrifice at Tinto 
— why, then, influence, wealth, greatness, everything, were united 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


177 


in the little person of Millefleurs, who was, besides, a very nice boy, 
and amused Edith, and would never harm any woman. This was 
the conclusion to which a thousand harassing lectures and remon- 
strances had brought her. She had not said a word of the change, 
which had worked imperceptibly, and chiefly in the long, sleepless 
night of the railway journey, to Edith ; and yet, with natural incon- 
sistency, she was vexed and annoyed that Edith should still laugh, as 
they had so often laughed together, at little Millefleurs. And both 
Edith and John, though his suspicions were not yet aroused on 
this subject, felt the keenness of irritation and vexed dissatisfaction 
in her tone. 

He withdrew soon after — for even the merest insinuation of a 
family jar is painful to an outsider — but not before Lord Lindores 
had come in, with much friendliness, to beg him to come back to 
dinner, and engage his immediate aid in the scheme which had 
already brought our young man some trouble. I want you to 
meet Rintoul,” said the earl. “I want you both to make your 
appearance at Dunearn next week at the county meeting. I am 
going to produce those plans I spoke to you about, and I hope to 
move them to some definite step. We shall have a strong opposi- 
tion, and the more support I can calculate on the better. Rintoul 
has no gift of speech ; he’ll say his say in his solid, straightforward, 
positive sort of manner. But the Scotch are proud of good speak- 
ing. I don’t know what you gifts may be in that way.” 

Oh, ;///,” said John. 

If you were a Frenchman I should take you at your word ; but 
in England there’s no telling. A young man has but one formula. 
If he is a natural orator, he gives just the same answer as if he can’t 
put two words together. That is what we call our national modesty. 

I wish for the moment you were as vain as a Frenchman, Erskine — 
then I should know the facts of the case. I dare say you speak very 
well — you have the looks of it ; and it will be a great thing for me if 
you will second and stand by Rintoul. If he muddles his statement, 
— which is quite likely, for the boy is as ignorant as a pig — you must 
set him right, and laugh a little at the defects of English education : 
that pleases a Scotch audience.” 

I think,” said Lady Lindores, that you are putting a great 
deal upon Mr. Erskine.” 

‘‘ Am I ? ” said her husband ; but it is in a good cause.” 

Perhaps this was too lightly said. John took his leave with a 
half-mortified, half-humorous consciousness that he was to have 
about the person of this young nobleman something like the same 
post enjoyed by Beaufort in respect to Millefleurs, but with neither 
present emolument nor prospect of promotion. And he felt sure 
that he should not like the fellow, John said to himself. Neverthe- 
less seven o’clock (they kept early hours in the country) saw him 
walking lightly, as no man ever walked to a disagreeable appoint- 
ment, toward the castle. Impossible to thread those shrubberies, 
to cross those lawns,Avithout a rising of the heart. ‘‘ Doors where 
my heart was wont to beat.” Nowhere else in the world did he 
8 * 


178 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


hasten with the same step, did he feel the very neighborhood of the 
place affect his pulses in the same way. It was the home to which 
his thoughts went before him, imagining many happinesses which per- 
haps did not come, but which always might come — which lived there, 
to be tasted one time or another. This occupation with the affairs 
of Lindores, with the new-comer, and the earl’s schemes, and so 
many secondary subjects, prevented him from entering into the 
questions which had so deeply discouraged him on the night of their 
return. He did not ask himself what he had to expect, what he had 
to do with them. He had a great deal to do with them in the mean- 
time, and that by their own desire. 

But John’s instinct had not been at fault in respect to Rintoul. 
They met as a game-keeper and poacher might meet, if persons of 
these classes had an indifferent meeting-ground in polite society, 
like their masters. A mutual scrutiny and suspicion were in their 
eyes. John, the more generous of the two, made up his mind to 
nothing save an instinctive hostility to the heir of the house, and a 
conviction that Rintoul would stand in his way, though he scarcely 
knew how. But Rintoul, on his side, being what his mother called 
positive and practical in the highest degree, had no hesitation what- 
ever in deciding upon John’s meaning and motives. They were each 
so much preoccupied in this hostile sense with each other, that Lord 
Lindores’ exhortations after dinner, as to the part he expected both 
to play, were received with small appreciation. Rintoul yawned 
visibly, and asked his father whether it was in reason to expect a 
fellow to plunge into business the moment he got home. John’s 
natural desire to say something conciliatory to the father thus con- 
tradicted by his son, which is the instinct of every spectator, was 
strengthened by his opposition to the special son in question ; but 
even he could not cast off his personality enough to embrace an 
abstract subject at such a moment : and the two young men escaped, 
by the only mutual impulse they seemed likely to feel, to the ladies, 
leaving Lord Lindores to take his share of the vexation and disap- 
pointment which visit most mortals impartially in their time. The 
ladies were out upon the lawn, which lay under the windows of the 
drawing-room, and from which, as from most places in the neigh- 
borhood, a wide expanse of landscape, culminating in the house of 
Tinto, with its red flag, was visible. The house of Tinto was to the 
Lindores family that culminating point of human care, the one evil 
that heightens all others, which is almost invariable in family experi- 
ences ; here their one prevailing pain, the one trouble that would 
not allow itself to be forgotten ; and sometimes they felt the very 
sight of the scene to be intolerable. But quiet was in the air of the 
lingering, endless night, so sweet, so unearthly, so long continued, 
making the hours like days. 

‘‘Ah , to be sure, that’s Tinto,” said Rintoul. “ What a fine place 
it is, to be sure ! Carry ought to be proud of such a place. And 
how do all the squires and squireens — or the. lairds, I suppose I 
should say, for local color — how do they like his red flag ? There 
ought to be plenty of hatred and malice on that score.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


179 


“ Nobody hates or bears malice to our Carry, that I can hear of,” 
said his mother, with a reproving glance. Her eye caught that of 
John, and she blushed almost violently — for was not he the repre- 
sentative of the squires and squireens ? 

But Torrance and Carry are one flesh,” said Rintoul. 

I ought to speak on the subject, as I am the only representa- 
tive of the accused,” said John, with an attempt at a lighter tone ; 
but it was not very successful, and there was a sense of possible 
commotion in the air, like the approach of a thunder-storm, which the 
women were far too sensitive not to feel — and they threw themselves 
into the breach, as was natural. When John took his leave, as the 
lingering daylight still lasted, they strolled with him through the 
shrubberies, accompanying him toward the gate. It was Lady Lin- 
dores herself who took the initiative in this, as her son thought, extra- 
ordinary condescension. Rintoul followed, keeping his sister walk- 
ing by his side, with indignant surprise painted all over him. Do 
you mean to say you do this every time that fellow is here ?” he asked, 
wrathfully. We have never been out-of-doors before when Mr. 
Erskine has gone away,” cried Edith, equally angry, in self defence. 
Meanwhile, the voices of the others, who were in advance, went on 
peacefully : they talked, unconscious of criticism, while the brother 
and sister listened. John had begun to tell Lady Lindores of the 
entertainments he meant to give. He avowed that they had been 
planned by Rolls, though his first intention had been to keep this 
fact to himself but the humor of it overcame him. He could not 
refrain from communicating so amusing a circumstance to the kind 
woman, who never misunderstood, and who received all confidences 
with maternal pleasure. He was pleased to hear her laugh, and not 
displeased to lay open the condition of his household to her, and the 
humors of the old servants, in whose hands he was still a boy. It 
is, don’t you think, a judicious despotism, on the whole?” he said. 
The sound of her laugh was delightful in his ears, even though a 
more sensitive narrator might have thought the laugh to be directed 
against himself. 

It is a delightful despotism, ” said Lady Lindores ; and as we 
shall benefit by it in the present case, I entirely approve of Rolls. 
But I think, perhaps, if I were you, I would not unfold the whole 
matter to Miss Barbara. Your aunt is born a great lady, Mr. 
Erskine. She might take it as quite right and within the duty of an 
old retainer; but again, she might take a different view. For my 
part, I entirely approve. It is exactly the right thing to do. ” 

‘‘ You are always so kind,” said John, -gratefully ; and perhaps 
you will advise me in matters that are beyond my prime -minister’s 
sphere ? ” 

Rolls and I ! ” she said, laughing. It is not often a young man 
has such a pair of counsellors.” Her laugh was so fresh and genuine 
that it sounded like the laugh of youth. Her children behind her 
had their curiosity greatly excited — Edith with a little wonder, to 
think what John could be saying to amuse her mother so much; 


i8o 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


Rintoul with high indignation, to see in what favor this country- 
neighbor was held. 

What does my mother mean? ” he said, grumbling in Edith’s 
ear. She will turn that fellow’s head. I never knew anything so 
out of place. One would think, to see you with him, that he was — 
why, your dearest friend, your — I don’t know what to say.” 

‘‘ Perhaps you had better not say anything, in case it should be 
something disagreeable,” said Edith, with a sudden flush of color. 

Mr. Erskine is our nearest neighbor — and I hope my mother, at 
least, does not want any guidance from you.” 

Oh, doesn’t she, though!” murmured Rintoul in his mustache. 
To his own consciousness his mother was the member of his family 
who stood the most in need of his guidance. He thought her the 
most imprudent woman he had ever come across, paying no atten- 
tion to her children’s prospects. They went on thus till they came to 
the gate, where the Countess of Lindores was actually to be seen by 
the woman at the lodge, or by any passing wayfarer, in her dinner- 
dress, with nothing but a lace cap on her head — and Edith, in her 
wfliite robes and shining hair — saying good-by to this rustic neigh- 
bor, this insidious squire ! Rintoul could not for some time relieve 
his soul as he wished. He was compelled to shake hands, too, in a 
surly way ; and it was not till Edith had left them that he permitted 
himself to make, as he said, a few remarks to his mother. She was 
lingering outside, for it was still daylight, though it was night. 

Mother,” said Rintoul, solemnly, ‘H ^ee it’s all exactly as I 
feared. You have let that fellow Erskine get to be a sort of tame 
cat about the hous£.” 

After ? ” said his mother, with a smile. 

After! well, that’s as you choose. But of this you may be sure, 
mother, my father won’t stand it. It will only make trouble in the 
house. He won’t let Edith throw herself away. You had better put 
a stop to it while you are able. I suspected it from the first moment 
I knew that Erskine was here.” 

You are very wise, Rintoul,” said his mother, with grieved 
displeasure, all the pain and disenchantment which she had managed 
to put aside and forget coming back into her troubled eyes. 

I don’t know if I’m very wise ; but I know something of the 
world,” said the son, who was so much better instructed than she 
was ; and I know, when one has charge of a girl, one oughtn’t to 
allow her to throw herself away.” 

Carry is supposed not to have thrown herself away,” said the 
indignant mother, with a glance toward that centre of her saddest 
thoughts, the arrogant front and false battlements of Tinto, faintly 
gleaming like royal, Windsor itself in the mists of distance. This 
was all in contradiction to the changed state of her mind toward 
Millefleurs and the gradual leaning toward a great marriage for Edith 
which had come over her. But we are never more hot in defence of 
our own side than when we have begun to veer toward the other ; and 
Rintoul’s lectures had been for a long time more than his mother 
could endure. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


l8i 

No, Carry cannot be said to have thrown herself away,^’ he 
said, thoughtfully stroking that mustache which looked so young, 
while its owner was so wise and politic. “ Carry should remember,’^ 
he said, after a pause, “ that she’s an individual, but the family com- 
prises many people — heaps of her descendants will be grateful to 
her, you know. And if the fellow is unbearable, why, a woman has 
always got it in her own hands to make his life a burden to him. 
Why is she so absurdly domestic ? . They have quantities of money, 
and there are plenty of brutes in society to keep him in countenance. 
She ought to come to town and see people, and enjoy herself. What 
is the good of living like a cabbage here ? ” 

If you will persuade Carry to emancipate herself a little — to 
think of herself a little — I will forgive you all your worldly-minded- 
ness,” said his mother, with a smile. 

‘‘ I will try,” he said ; “ and as for my worldly-mindedness, as 
you call it, how is a fellow to get on in the world, I should like to 
know ? It isn’t by money /’// ever push my way. I must look out 
for other ways and means.” 

Does that mean an heiress, Rintoul? ” 

His mother was half laughing, half serious. But there was no 
laughter in Rintoul’s countenance. The corners of his mouth were 
drawn down. His eyes were as solemn as if the matter in question 
had been life or death. 

You may be sure I’ll do my duty to the family, whether I like 
it or not,” he said, with heroic gravity. I don’t mean to recom- 
mend other people to do what I’ll not do myself.” 

But Rintoul sighed. He was heroic, indeed, '‘but he was human. 
A breath of soft recollections came over him. He, too, had enter- 
tained other thoughts — he had allowed himself to be beguiled to 
gentler visions. But when the voice of duty bade he felt that he 
had it in him to be superior to all weakness. Come an heiress of 
sufficient pretensions to be worthy of the son of Lindores, and he 
would buckle his manhood to him and 'marry her without wincing. 
His duty he was at all times ready to do ; but yet to the softer part 
of life, to the dreams of a youth unawakened to such stern purposes 
of heroism, he might yet be permitted to give a sigh. 

John Erskine was the very opposite of this predestined martyr. 
He felt no weight of family responsibility upon him. All that he . 
wished was — a good wish enough, if it had not been altogether be- 
yond possibility of fulfilment — that the last lord of Lindores had 
lived to be a patriarch, and had been succeeded by his son in the 
course of nature. What a difference that would have made to every- 
body concerned ! But our young man did all he could to keep defin- 
ite plans and hopes out of his mind. He preferred to get the good 
of each day as it came. If he thought too much of them, he felt a 
dismal certainty that disappointments would follow. He preferred 
that his present existence should flow au jour le jour. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


iSa 


CHAPTER XXL 

When the news of the approaching festivities at Dalrulzian were 
known in Dunearn, Miss Barbara Erskine and her household were 
flung into a whirlpool of excitement such as had not disturbed their 
calm for more years than could be reckoned. There was, of course, 
no question as to the immediate acceptance by the old lady of her 
nephew’s invitation to her to do the honors of his house. She was 
very much touched and pleased — with that satisfaction, above all, 
which is so sweet to a woman — of feeling that John was doing abso- 
lutely ‘‘ the right thing ” in placing her, his old aunt, at the head of 
affairs. It was a compliment to the family, to the old neighbors, as 
well as to herself. But it is not too much to say that from the scul- 
lery to the drawing-room her house was turned upside down by 
this great event. Miss Barbara’s first thought was, as was natural, 
that a great many things would be wanted. She went instantly 
to her ‘‘ napery ” closet — Agnes, her old maid, attending her with 
the key — and brought out stores of shining damask, milk-white and 
fragrant, every table-cloth with its pile of napkins, like a hen with 
chickens. I never inquired into the napery at Dalrulzian,” the old 
lady said ; ^MDut it would be a great temptation to a woman with a 
sma’ family to take the use of it ; and, for anything I know, he may 
be in want of table-linen. Ye’ll pack a boxful, Agnes, whether or 
no. There’s the great table-cloths, with the crown pattern, they are 
the biggest I have. Ye’ll take them, and table-napkins. You may 
take ten or twelve dozen. They are always useful.” 

And you’ll take the best silver, mem ? ” said Janet, for this 
was in her department. If it had been suggested to them that their 
best Paisley shawls, on which both Janet and Agnes set great store, 
would have been useful to cover the faded places on the carpet, 
these devoted women would have sacrificed their most cherished 
possessions. Miss Barbara’s old epergnes and table ornaments, 
which, happily, were older and less solid than the camel and palm- 
trees at Tinto, were packed into a huge box, with all her available 
forks and spoons, and sent off in a cart before her to the scene of 
the entertainment. Then a still more important question arose as 
to the help that would be required to produce a dinner and a ball- 
supper worthy of the Erskine name. Miss Barbara put her trust in 
Janet, who had managed all her own household affairs for a great 
number of years. I’ll take ye both with me,” she said, to the two 
women, who made her comfort and credit the occupation of their 
lives, and when ye consider what’s at stake you’ll just put your 
hand to anything ; and ye like a ploy, both of ye, and plenty of 
young faces about the house.” 

Eh, but I do that,” said Agnes ; and I would not wonder 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


183 


but Mr. John’s meaning to take a survey of all the misses, and him 
a wanter and a bonny lad into the bargain. We’ll maybe hear who 
it is to be.” 

But Janet demurred. It’s not to be denied but I would like to 
go,” she said ; and blithe, blithe would I be to put to my hand, if 
it was only to boil a pitawtie, and proud to think the auld family, so 
lang away, was holding up its head again. But then there’s Bauby 
Rolls, that’s been house-keeper so long, and a good cook and a good 
woman. She would think we meant to interfere.” 

‘‘ It would ill become either Bauby or any other person to think 
me interfering in my nephew’s house,” said Miss Barbara. Ye’ll 
just come, Janet. I am saying nothing against Bauby ; but she’ll 
be out of the way of managing for a pairty.” 

There are plenty of pairties in the winter-time,” said Janet. 

I wouldna stand in other folks’ gait. Na ; naebody would sayj)/<?« 
were interfering, Miss Barbara. Wha has a better right in your ain 
nephew’s house ? — but me, it’s another* question. I couldna gang 
ben to her kitchen, or look at a single article, but it would be 
thought I was meddling. What would I think if Bauby Rolls came 
here on a veesit to help me ? I would say I maun be getting doited, 
though I cannot see it : I maun be losing the use o’ my faculties. I 
judge of her by mysel’. She would think the same of me. But, 
Agnes, you can take her,” said the house-keeper, with a fine and 
delicate contempt. ‘‘ She has aye her head full of whigmaleeries"; 
but she’ll stand in nobody’s way.” 

I’ll not ask your leave, Janet, to take my own woman with me,’' 
said Miss Barbara, with some annoyance. 

Na, mem, I never thought that,” retorted her factotum. I’m 
seldom consulted, though maybe it would be none the worse for the 
family if I were letten say my say. For a ball-supper there’s nae- 
thing better than a fine boned turkey well stuffed and larded,” she 
added, reflectively. And I’m not against soup. It’s new-fashioned ; 
but there’s new-fashioned things that’s just as good as the old. One 
thing I set my face against is thae new drinks — Cup, as they call 
them. They take an awfu’ quantity of wine ; and in the heat o’ the 
dancing thae young things will just spoil their stomachs, never think- 
ing what they’re swallowing. That’s my opinion. I’m no saying 
I’m ony authority, and Mr. Rolls will have a’ that in his hands, and 
will not lippen to a woman ; but that’s my opinion. It’s an awfu’ 
waste of wine. I would rather give them good, honest champagne 
out of the bottle, that they might see what they are taking, far sooner 
than that wasteful Cup.” 

“ That’s very true, Janet,” said Miss Barbara ; I’m of that 
opinion myself. But in most houses it’s the gentleman himself 
(when there is a gentleman) that manages the cellar; and it would 
never do for a lady to say anything. But I will mind to tell him (for 
it’s my own opinion), if he consults me.” 

And for sweet things, there’s nothing like ice-creams, if she 
can make them,” said Janet. ‘‘If she were to say, mem, of her own 
accord, that she has little experience, you might send me a line by 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


: i 84 

the postman, and I would do my best ; but no unless it’s of her own 
accord. Na, na ; I ken by mysel’. If a strange woman were to 
come into my kitchen and meddle with my denner — But tak’ you 
Agnes, Mis.s Barbara. She might make up a match yet, for a’ that’s 
come and ganc, with Tammas Rolls.” 

Miss Barbara appeared accordingly at Dalrulzian, the day before 
the great dinner, in her old coach, with her two best gowns in the 
imperial, and all her old ornaments, and with Agnes her maid 
seated primly by her, inside. The chariot was almost as old as 
Miss Barbara herself, and was kept for great occasions. It was 
drawn by two somewhat funereal black horses from the Red Lion at 
Dunearn — altogether a solemn turnout, and quite unlike the handy 
little phaeton in which usually the old lady drove about. The post- 
boy took away those noble steeds when he had housed the chariot 
in the Dalrulzian stables, to which he was to return in four days, to 
take it back with its mistress. And Miss Barbara bore a grave 
though cheerful countenance as she walked into the drawing-room, 
and took her place there on the great tapestry sofa. The box of 
plate and linen had arrived before her, and she felt that it was 
necessary at once to look into the details of the proposed entertain- 
ment. ‘‘ Will you send the house-keeper to me ? ” she said to Rolls, 
with dignity, thinking it beneath the solemnity of the occasion to 
call Bauby by any less weighty title. Bauby came in with good- 
natured alacrity; but she was somewhat abashed by the air of 
gravity on Miss Barbara’s face, whom she was not accustomed to 
see in such state. Come in, my woman,” said the old lady. It’s 
a great responsibility for you to have the charge of all this. You 
will like a little assistance with your dinner. I’m well aware that 
both that and the supper for the ball are in very good hands so far 
as the provisions go ; but your master being young, and without ex- 
perience, and as there’s no lady in the house, I think it my duty to 
be of service,” Miss Barbara said. Bauby stood before her greatly 
flushed, and laid a number of hems, one over the other, on her 
apron. ^‘Hoot, mem, we’ll just manage fine,” she said, growing 
red. But this did not satisfy the august old lady. 

If you’re in want of any help,” she said, there’s a woman of 
mine ” 

Rolls, who had been waiting outside the door, came to the res- 
cue. He appeared behind the flushed Bauby. ‘‘ She’s a confused 
creature,” he said, but she knows her business. We’ve put it all 
down. Miss Barbara, in the new-fashioned way. I’m aware that at 
the castle and other grand places it’s written in French, but good 
Scots is good enough for us.” 

It was no small effort to find and produce from Bauby’s pocket 
the bill of fare of the approaching dinner. But this document took 
away Miss Barbara’s breath. It was some time before she got over 
it. Instead of the chaos which she half feared, yet half hoped for, 
as a means of exercising her own gifts on her nephew’s behalf, it was 
an elaborate menu, drawn out in full form, that was placed before 
her eyes. The old lady was struck dumb for a moment, and when 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


x 85 

she spoke there was a certain awe in her tone. If you can set a 
dinner like that on the table,” she said, I have not a word to say.” 

Oh, mem, we’ll manage fine,” said Bauby, in her soft, round, 
good-humored voice. 

Miss Barbara,” said Rolls, ^^I’m no braggart; but I’ve seen a 
thing or two in my life. And Bauby, she has far more in her than 
appears. She’s just a confused creature in speech ; but pit her to 
her goblets and her sauces, and she kens well what she’s about. She 
has the real spirit of it in her ; and when her blood’s up for the 
credit of the family ” 

‘‘Eh, mem!” cried Bauby herself, putting her apron to her 
eyes, for her tears came readily, “ do you think I would let them 
say that Mr. John couldna give a denner as good as the best.^ And 
he such a fine lad, and wanting a wife, and his mammaw so far 
away ! ” 

“ Never you mind his mammaw,” cried Miss Barbara, with 
natural family feeling ; “ she was never a great manager. But if 
you set that dinner on the table, Bauby Rolls, you’re a woman 
worthy of all respect, and I hope my nephew will know when he’s 
well off.” 

She withdrew to the room prepared for her after this, a little 
crestfallen, yet doing due honor to the native powers. “ We’ll say 
nothing to Janet,” she said to her faithful old maid, as she sat at her 
toilet. “ Janet is an excellent woman, and just the right person for 
a house like mine. But she has not that invention. Four made 
dishes, besides all the solids 1 We’ll not say a word to Janet. It 
would be more than she could bear.” 

“ You see. Miss Barbara, there’s two of them to settle it,” said 
Agnes, as she brushed out the old lady’s abundant white hair ; “and 
a man is awfu’ discriminating about eating and drinking. He may 
not have sense like a woman, but he has more taste of his mouth.” 

“ There is something in that,” said her mistress ; “if it’s Rolls, 
John has got a treasure in that man. The cornel’s dinners were 
always very English, to my way of thinking — but that would be their 
own fault ; or if it’s my nephew himself — ” she added, doubtfully. 
What was a great quality in Rolls catering for other people would 
have been almost a vice, in the eyes of this prejudiced old lady, in 
the young master of the house. 

“ Mr. John ! ” said Agnes, still more moved — “ a bonny lad like 
him ! Na, na ; it would never be that. It’ll be the young misses, 
and not the dishes, he will be thinking about. And who knows but 
we may see the one that’s his choice ? And I wish she may be a 
lovely young lady, for his sake.” 

“ She would need to be something more than that,” said Miss 
Barbara, shaking her head. “ A little money would be of great 
advantage to the estate.” 

“ Eh, but, mem, he maun marry for love,” said Agnes ; “ what’s 
siller in comparison ? And I think I know Somebody, for my pairt.” 

“ Whisht, Agnes ! ” said her mistress, peremptorily ; “ whatever 
thought may be in your head, to name it spoils all,” 


i86 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


For these two simple women were still of opinion that Providence 
had created John Erskine’s wife for him, and that he could not mis- 
take the guidance of that unerring hand. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

The ball was in full career ; everybody had come to it from all 
the houses within reach, and the radius was wide — extending over 
the whole county. It was universally acknowledged that nobody 
could have imagined the drawing-room at Dalrulzian to be so large ; 
and though the mothers and the old ladies were in a great state of 
alarm as to the facilities for stepping forth through the long windows 
after a dance, yet the young people, indifferent to the Northern 
chill which they had been used to all their lives, considered the 
Walk, which seemed almost a portion of the room, to be the most 
delightful of all. Rintoul, though with many protestations and 
much scorn of the little rustic assembly, had been persuaded to 
wait for it, and was an object of attraction as great, nay, in some 
respects greater, than John himself. There were no great young 
ladies in the company for whom it was worth his while to exert him- 
self, and consequently the young man yielded to the soft flattery of 
all the pleased and grateful faces around him, and made himself 
agreeable in general, ending, however, almost invariably at the side 
of Nora, to whom it was a pleasing compensation for the indifference 
of the young master of Dalrulzian, who had been so distinctly des- 
tined for her by the county. John was very civil to Nora. He 
went out of his way, indeed, to be civil. He took her about the 
house, into the library and the hall, to show her the alterations he 
was making, and appealed to her about their propriety in a way 
which Nora felt might have taken in some girls. But she was not 
taken in. She knew it was merely politeness, and that John would 
go away, as soon as he had done his duty, with a certain sense of 
relief. But Rintoul’s attentions were paid in a very different spirit. 
He asked her to dance as many times as he could without attracting 
too much notice. Nora felt that he discriminated this line finely, 
and was half provoked and half flattered by it, feeling acutely that 
v/hereas John Erskine did his best to show her all the civility which 
his position required, Rintoul went against all the duties of his posi- 
tion to get near her, to talk to her in a corner, to devote to her 
every moment which he could devote to her without remark. He 
was very careful, very desirous not to commit himself with. society ; 
but, to Nora, every tone of his voice, every look committed him. 
She felt — she was a great deal cleverer than Rintoul, and saw through 
and through him — that to her he was a totally different person from 
the young man of fashion, who, with a touch of condescension, did 
his duty to the other young ladies. She saw him in a different light. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


187 


He toned his words for her. He changed his very sentiments. She 
was pleased and amused, and at the same time touched, when (for 
she was too clever) she noted this change coming over him- in the 
middle of a sentence, in the figure of a dance, when he suddenly 
found himself near her. There could not have been a more com- 
plete proof of these sentiments which he was as yet afraid to indulge 
in, which vanquished him against his will. A girl’s pride may be 
roused by the idea that a man struggles against her power over him, 
and is unwilling to love her; but at the same time there is a won- 
derful flattery in the consciousness that his unwillingness avails him 
nothing, and that reason is powerless in comparison with love. 
Nora with her keen eyes marked how, when the young man left her 
to dance or to talk with some one else, he kept, as it were, one eye 
upon her, watching her partners and her behavior ; and how, the 
moment he was free, he would gyrate round her, with something 
which (within herself, always laughing, yet not displeased) she com- 
pared to the flutterings of a bird beating its wings against the air, 
resisting yet compelled to approach some centre of fascination. He 
would have kept away if he could, but he was not able. She was so 
much occupied in watching these proceedings of his — seeing the 
humor of them so completely that she was fain to put her head out 
at the window, or retire into a corner of the hall, to laugh privately 
to herself — that she lost the thread of much that was said to her, and 
sadly wounded the feelings of several of the young officers from 
Dundee. What they said was as a murmur in her ears, while her 
mind was engaged in the more amusing study — watching the move- 
ments of Rintoul. 

The Lindores family had come out in force to grace John’s enter- 
tainment. Even the earl himself had come, which was so unusual. 
He had made up his mind so strenuously as to the support which 
John was to give to Rintoul’s candidateship and his own plan, that 
he thought it necessary to countenance,” as he said, our young 
man’s proceedings in everything personal to himself. And Lord 
Lindores, like so many people, did not perceive, in his inspection 
of the horizon, and desire that this thing and that should be done in 
the distance, the danger which lay under his very eye. No doubt 
it was natural that his little daughter Edith should be, as it were, 
the queen of the entertainment. Not only was she one of the pret- 
tiest girls in the county, but she was the first in rank, and therefore 
the most to be thought of ; the first to be honored, if any honors 
were going. That was simple enough, and cost him no consideration 
at all. He made another effort to overcome old Sir James Mont- 
gomery’s prejudiced opposition, and talked on political matters in 
the door-ways with a great deal of liberality and good-humor, taking 
with perfect serenity the clumsy gibes which his neighbors would 
launch at innovators, at people with foreign tastes, at would-be phil- 
anthropists. He smiled, and ‘‘ never let on,” though sometimes the 
gibes were galling enough. Lady Lindores sat at the head of the 
room, with Lady Car by her — very gracious too, though sometimes 
yawning a little privately behind her fan. They spoke to the people 


i88 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


who came to speak to them, and acknowledged the new-comers who 
were introduced to them with benignant smiles. But both mother 
and daughter were somewhat out of their element. Now and then 
a lively passage of conversation would break out around them, and 
anon die off, and they would be left again smiling but silent, giving 
each other sympathetic glances, and swallowing delicate yawns. 

No, I do not dance. You must excuse me,” Lady Car said, quietly, 
with that pretty smile which lighted up her pale face like sunshine. 
She was not pretty — but there could not be a face more full of mean- 
ing. Her eyes had some anxiety always in them, but her smile gave 
to her face something of the character of one whose life was over, to 
whom it mattered very little what was going to happen — to whom, 
in short, nothing could happen — to whom Fate had done its worst. 

There was a brief pause in the gayety, and of a sudden, as will 
sometimes happen, the murmur of talk in all the different groups, 
the hum of the multitude at its pleasantest and lightest, was suspen- 
ded. When such a pause occurs it will frequently be filled and taken 
possession of for the moment by some louder or mofe persistent 
scrap of conversation from an individual group, which suddenly 
seems to become the chief thing in the crowd, listened to by all. 
Ordinarily it is the most trivial chit-chat, but now and then the ranks 
will open, as it were, to let something of vital importance, some rev- 
elation, some germ of quarrel, some fatal hint or suggestion, be 
heard. This time it was Torrance, always loud-voiced, whose words 
suddenly came out in the hearing of the entire company. He hap- 
pened at the moment to be standing with John Erskine contemplat- 
ing the assembly in general. Rintoul was close by, lingering for a 
moment to address a passing civility to the matron whose daughter 
he had just brought back to her side. Torrance had been in the 
supper-room, and was charged with champagne. He was not a 
drunkard, but he habitually took a great deal of wine, the result of 
which was only to make him a little more himself than usual, touch- 
ing all his qualities into exaggeration — a little louder, a little more 
rude, cynical, and domineering. He was surveying the company 
with his big staring eyes. 

This makes me think,” he said, of the time when I was a 
wanter, as they say. Take the good of your opportunities, John 
Erskine. Take your chance, man, while ye have it. When a man’s 
married he’s done for — nobody cares a fig for him more ; but before 
he’s fixed his choice the whole world is at his call. Then’s the time 
to be petted and made much of — everybody smiling upon you — in- 
stead of sitting with one peevish face on the other side of the fire at 
home.” 

He ended this speech with one of his huge, rude laughs ; and 
there are a great many such speeches permitted in society, laughed 
at even by those who are themselves the point of the moral. But 
Rintoul was in an excited condition of mind; contradictory to all his 
own tenets ; going in his heart against his own code ; kicking against 
the pricks. He turned round sharply with a certain pleasure in 
finding somebody upon whom to let forth an ill-humor which had 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 189 

been growing in him. ‘‘You forget, Torrance, who I am, when you 
speak of this peevish face before me.” 

“ You ! Troth I forgot your existence altogether,” said Torrance, 
after a pause of astonishment, and a prolonged stare, ending in an- 
other laugh. 

Rintoul flushed a furious red. He was excited by the rising of a 
love which he meant to get the better of, but which for the moment 
had got the better of him ; and by all the restraints he had put upon 
himself, and which public opinion required should be put upon him. 
He flashed upon his brother-in-law an angry glance, which in its way 
was like the drawing of a sword. 

“You had better,” he said, “ recall my existence as quickly as 
you can, Torrance — for it may be necessary to remind you of it very 
sharply one of these days, from all I hear.” 

Torrance replied by another loud, insulting laugh. “ I mind 
you well enough when I hear you crow, my little cock-o’-the-walk,” 
he said. 

The conversation had got thus far during the pause which has 
been described. But now the whole assembly rushed into talk with 
a general tremor, the band struck up, the dancers flew off with an 
energy which was heightened by a little panic. Everybody dislikes a 
family quarrel ; the first beginnings of it may excite curiosity, but 
at a certain point it alarms the most dauntless gossip. To get out 
of the way of it, the w'orld in general will take any trouble. Accord- 
ingly the ranks closed with the eagerness of fear, to continue the 
metaphor, and the two belligerents were hidden at once from sight 
and hearing. Men began to talk in their deepest basses, women in 
their shrillest trebles, and how it ended nobody knew. There were 
a great many whispered questions and remarks made afterward, when 
the crisis was over. “ Young Erskine had all the trouble in the 
world to smooth it over.” “ One doesn’t know what would have 
happened if old Sir James had not got hold of Lord Rintoul.” 
“ Half a dozen men got round Pat Torrance. They made believe 
to question him about some racing, and that quieted him,” cried one 
and another, each into the nearest ear ; and the whole assembly 
with a thrill watched the family of Lindores in all its movements, 
and saw significance in every one of these. 

This was the only contretemps that occurred in the whole pro- 
gramme of the festivities at Dalrulzian. It passed out of hearing of 
Lady Car, who sat the evening out with that soft patience as of one 
whose day was over — the little smile, the little concealed yawn, the 
catch of conversation when any one who could talk drifted by her. 
Dr. Stirling and she discussed Wordsworth for a whole half-hour, 
which was the only part of the entertainment that withdrew her at 
all from herself. ‘^‘ And his noble philosophy of sorrow,” she said, 
“which is the finest of all. The part which he gives it in the world — ” 
“ I am not clear in my own mind,” said the doctor, “ that sorrow 
by itself does good to anybody.” “ Stretch a hand through time to 
catch the far-off interest of tears,” cried Lady Car, with an un- 
fathomable distance in her mild eyes, shaking her head at him and 


190 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


smiling. This was her point of enjoyment. When she thought the 
hour at which she might withdraw was coming she sent to her hus- 
band to know if he was ready, still quite unaware of his utterance 
about the peevish face. Poor Lady Car ! her face was not peevish. 
It was somewhat paler than usual, so much as that was possible, as 
she watched him coming toward her. The more wine he took the 
less supportable he was. Alarm came into her gentle eyes. Oh 
yes. I’m ready,” he said ; Fve been here long enough,” in a tone 
which she understood well. She thought it was possibly John who 
had given him offence, and took leave of her host quickly, holding 
out her hand to him in passing with a word. I must not stop to 
congratulate you now. I will tell how well it has gone off next time 
I see you,” she said, hastily. But her brother would not be shaken 
off so easily. He insisted on keeping by her side, and took a tender 
leave of her only at the carriage door, walking along with her as 
though determined to make a demonstration of his brotherly regard. 

I shall see you again, Rintoul, before you go ? ” “ No,” he cried. 

Good-bye, Car : I am not coming to Tinto again.” What did it 
mean ? But as they drove home through the dark, shut up together 
in that strict enclosure, her husband did not fail to make her ac- 
quainted with what had happened. What’s his business, I should 
like to know?” Torrance cried. Of course it’s your complaints. 
Lady Car. You set yourselves up as martyrs, you white-faced 
women. You think it gives you a charm the more ; but I’ll charm 
them that venture to find fault with me ! ” he cried, with his hot 
breath, like a strong gale of wine and fury, on her cheek. What 
disgust was in her breast along with the pain ! There’s no duels 
now, more’s the. pity,” said Torrance : ‘‘maybe you think it’s as 
well for me, and that your brother might have set you free, my 
lady.” “ I have never given you any cause to say so,” she cried 
from her corner, shrinking from him as far as possible. What a 
home-going that was ! and the atmosphere of wine, and heat, and 
rude fury, and ruder affection, from which she could not escape, was 
never to escape all her wretched life. Poor Lady Car ! with nothing 
but a little discussion about Wordsworth or Shelley to stand in place 
of happiness to her heart. 

“I have been quarrelling with that brother-in-law of mine,” Rin- 
toul said to Nora in the next dance, which he ought not to have had, 
he knew, and she knew, though she had been persuaded to throw off 
for him a lagging partner. He had not said a word about the quarrel 
to his mother or sister, but to Nora he could not help telling it. He 
broke even the strained decorum which he had been painfully keep- 
ing up for this cause. Already he had danced more than was usual 
with one partner, but this was too strong for him. He could not re- 
sist the temptation. 

“ Oh, Lord Rintoul ! ” 

“Yes, I have quarrelled with him. To hear how he spoke of 
“Carry was more than I could bear. Now you will never betray me ; 
tell me — I daren’t ask any one else — is he supposed to be — ^Jove ! I 
can’t say the word — unkind to poor Car ? ” 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


191 


He is very proud of her — he thinks there is no one like her. I 
don’t think he means it, Lord Rintoul.” 

Means it ! — but he is so, because he is a brute, and doesn’t 
know what he is doing.” 

“They are not — very like each other,” said Nora, hesitating; 
“ but everybody must have seen that before.” 

“ Yes, I own it,” said Rintoul, “ I take shame to myself. Oh 
that money, that money ! ” he cried, with real passion, giving her 
hand a cruel, unnecessary grip, as he led her back to the dance ; 
“ the things that one is obliged to look over, and to wink at, on ac- 
count of that ! ” 

“ But no one is forced to consider it at all — to that extent,” Nora 
said. 

“To what extent? ” Rintoul asked, and then he gave her hand 
another squeeze, always under cover of the dance. “ You are alcove 
it — but who is like you ? ” he said, as he whirled her away into the 
crowd. This was far indeed for so prudent a young man to go. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

The summer went over without any special incident. August 
and the grouse approached, or rather the 12th approached, August 
having already come. Every bit of country not arable or clothed 
with pasture was purple and brilliant with heather ; and to stand 
under the columns of the fir-trees on a hill-side was to be within such 
a world of “ murmurous sound” as you could scarcely attain even 
under the Southern limes, or by the edge of the sea. The hum of 
the bees among the heather — the warm, luxurious sunshine streaming 
over that earth-glow of heather-bells — what is there more musical, 
more complete ? These hot days are rare, and the sportsman does 
not esteem them much ; but when they come the sun that floods 
the warm soil, the heather that glows back again in endless warmth 
and bloom, the bees that never intermit their hum, “ numerous” as 
the lips of any poet, the wilder mystic note that answers from the 
boughs of the scattered firs, make up a harmony of sight and sound 
to which there are few parallels. So Lord Millefleurs thought 
when he climbed up the hill above Dalrulzian, and looking down on 
the other side, saw the sea of brilliant moorland, red and purple and 
golden, with gleams here and there of the liveliest green— the fine 
knolls of moss upon the gray-green of the moorland grass. He de- 
clared it was “ a new experience,” with a little lisp, but a great deal 
of feeling. Lady Lindores and Edith were of the party with John 
Erskine. They had lunched at Dalrulzian, and John was showing 
his poor little place, with a somewhat rueful civility, to the Duke of 
Lavender’s son. Millefleurs was all praise and admiration, as a vis- 
itor ought to be ; but what could he think of the handful of a place, 


192 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


the small house, the little wood, the limited establishment ? They 
had been recalling the Eton days, when John was, the little marquis 
declared, far too kind a fag-master. ‘‘For 1 have must have been 
a little wretch,” said the little fat man, folding his hands with an- 
gelical seriousness and simplicity. Lady Lindores, who had once 
smiled at his absurdities with such genial liking, could not bear them 
now, since she had taken up the idea that Edith might be a duchess. 
She glanced at her daughter to see how she was taking it, and was 
equally indignant with Millefleurs for making himself ridiculous, and 
with Edith for laughing. “ I have no doubt you were the best fag 
that ever was,” she said. 

“ Dear Lady Lindores ! always so good and so kind,” said Mille- 
fleurs, clasping his little fat hands. “ No, dearest lady, I was a little 
brute ; I know it. To be kicked every day would have been the 
right*, thing for me — and Erskine, if I recollect right, had an energetic 
toe upon occasions, but not often enough. Boys are brutes in general 
— with the exception of Rintoul, who, I have no doubt, was a little 
angel. How could he be anything else, born'in such a house ? ” 

“ If you think Lindores has so good an effect, Rintoul was not 
born there,” she said, laughing, but half vexed ; for she had not, 
indeed, any idea of being laughed at in her turn, and she was 
aware that she had never thought Rintoul an angel. But Lord Mille- 
fleurs went on, seriously, 

“ Rintoul will despise me very much, and so, probably, will Ers- 
kine ; 'but I do not mean to go out to-morrow. I take the oppor- 
tunity here of breaking the news. If it is as fine as this, I shall 
come out here (if you will let me) and lie on this delicious heather, 
watch you strolling forth, and listen to the crack of the guns. No ; 
I don’t object to it on principle. I like grouse, and I suppose that’s 
the best way to kill them, if you will take so much trouble ; but for 
me, it is not my way of enjoyment. I was not made to be a son of 
civilization. Do not laugh. Lady Edith, please ; you hurt my feel- 
ings. If you take luncheon to the sportsmen anywhere, I will go 
with you — unless you, as I suppose you will, despise me too.” 

“ I don’t think it is such a noble thing to shoot birds. Lord Mille- 
fleurs.” 

“ But yet you don’t dislike grouse — and it must be killed some- 
how,” said John, somewhat irritated, as was natural. 

“ My dear fellow, I don’t find fault with you. I see your position 
perfectly. It is a thing you have always done. It is an occupation, 
and at the same time an excitement — a pleasure. I have felt the 
same thing in California with the cattle. But it doesn’t amuse me, 
and I am not a great shot. I will help to carry your luncheon, if 
Lady Lindores will let me, and enjoy the spectacle of so many 
healthy, happy persons who feel that they have earned their dinner. 
All that I sympathize in perfectly. You will excuse me saying din- 
ner,” said Millefleurs, with pathos. “ When we got our food after a 
morning’s work we always called it dinner. In many things I have 
quite returned to civilization ; but there are some particulars still in 
which I slip : forgive me. May we sit down here upon the heather 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


193 


and tell stories ? I had a reputation once in that way. You would 
not care for my stories, Lady Edith ; you know them all by heart. 
Now, this is what I call delightful,” said little Millefleurs, arranging 
himself carefully upon the heather, and taking off his hat. You 
would say it is lovely, if you were an American,” 

‘‘ Do you mean the moor ? I think it is very lovely, with all the 
heather and the gorse, and the burns and the bees. Out of Scotland, 
is there anything like it ? ” Edith said. 

‘‘ Oh yes, in several places ; but it is not the moor, it is the mo- 
ment. It is lovely to sit here. It is lovely to enjoy one’s self, and 
have a good time. Society is becoming very American,” said Mille- 
fleurs. There are so many about. They are more piquant than 
any other foreigners. French has become absurd and Italian pe- 
dantic ; but it is amusing to talk a foreign language which is in 
English words, don’t you know.” 

‘‘ You are to come back with them to dinner, Mr. Erskine,” Lady 
Lindores said. She thought it better, notwithstanding her prevail- 
ing fear that Millefleurs would be absurd, to leave him at liberty to 
discourse to Edith as he loved to discourse. I hope you are going 
to have a fine day. The worst is, you will all be so tired at night 
you will not have a word to bestow upon any one.” 

I have not too many at any time,” said John, with a glance, 
which he could not make quite friendly, at the visitor, who was flow- 
ing blandly on with his lisp, with much gentle demonstration, like a 
chemical operator or a prestidigitateur , with his plump hands. Our 
young man was not jealous as yet, but a little moved with envy — be- 
ing not much of a talker, as he confessed — of Millefleurs’s fluency. 
But he had thrown himself at Edith’s feet, and in this position felt 
no bitterness, nor would have changed places with any one, es- 
pecially as now and then she would give him a glance in which there 
was a secret communication, and mirthful comment upon the other 
who occupied the foreground, Lady Lindores preferred, however, 
that he should talk to her, and withdraw his observation from her 
daughter. Reluctantly, against the grain, she was beginning in her 
turn to plot and to scheme. She was ashamed of herself, yet, hav- 
ing once taken up the plan, it touched her pride that it should be 
carried out. 

‘‘ I have always found you had words enough whenever you washed 
to say them,” she said. “ Perhaps you will tell me everybody has 
that. And Lord Lindores tells me you don’t do yourself justice, Mr. 
Erskine. He says you speak very well, and have such a clear head. 
I think,” she added, with a sigh, ‘‘ it is you who ought to be in Par- 
liament, and not Rintoul.” 

‘‘ That is past thinking of,” John said, with a little heightened 
color. He thought so himself ; but neither could the party bear a 
divided interest, nor had he himself any influence to match that of 
Lord Lindores. 

.‘‘You are going to Tinto on Tuesday,” said Lady Lindores, 
“ with the rest ? Do you know, Mr. Erskine, my boy has never met 
his brother-in-law since that evening here, when some words passed. 

9 


J94 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


I never could make out what they were. Not enough to make a 

quarrel of— not enough to disturb Carry ” 

do not think so. It was only a — momentary impatience,” 
John said. 

Mr. Erskine, I am going to ask you a great favor. It is if you 
would keep in Rintoul’s company — keep by him ; think, in a family, 
how dreadful it would be if any quarrel sprung up. The visit will 
not last long. If you will keep your eye upon him, keep between 
him and temptation ” 

John could not help smiling. The position into which he was 
being urged, as a sort of governor to Rintoul, was entirely absurd to 
his own consciousness. You smile,” cried Lady Lindores, eag- 
erly ; you think, what right has this woman to ask so much ? I 
am not even a very old friend.” 

‘‘lam laughing at the idea that Rintoul should be under my 
control ; he is more a man of the world than I am.” 

“ Yes,” said his mother, doubtfully, “ that is true. He is dread- 
fully wordly in some ways ; but, Mr. Erskine, I wonder if you will 
disapprove of me when I say it has been a comfort to me to find him 
quite boyish and impulsive in others ? He is prudent — about Edith, 
for example.” 

“ About^Lady Edith ? ” John said, falteringly, with a look of 
intense surprise and anxiety on his face. 

There is no doubt that Lady Lindores was herself a most impru- 
dent woman. She gave him a quick, sudden glance, reddened, and 
then looked as suddenly at the other group : Millefleurs flowing 
forth in placid talk, with much eloquent movements of his plump 
hands, and Edith listening, with a smile on her face which now and 
then seemed ready to overflow into laughter. She betrayed herself 
and all the family scheme by this glance — so sudden, so uninten- 
tional — the action of one entirely unskilled in the difflcult art of de- 
ception. John’s glance followed hers with a sudden shock and pang 
of dismay. He had not thought of it before ; now in a moment he 
seemed to see it all. It was an unfortunate moment too ; for Edith 
was slightly leaning forward, looking at her companion with a most 
amiable and friendly aspect, almost concealing, with the forward 
stoop of her pretty figure, the rotund absurdity of his. She smiled, 
yet she was listening to him with all the absorbed attention of a 
Desdemona ; and the little brute had so much to say for himself! 
The blood all ran away from John’s healthful countenance to replen- 
ish his heart, which had need of it in this sudden and most unlooked- 
for shock. Lady Lindores saw the whole, and shared the shock of 
the discovery, ^which to her was double, for she perceived in the 
same moment that she had betrayed herself, and saw what John’s 
sentiments were. Some women divine such feelings from their earl- 
iest rise — foresee them, indeed, before they come into existence, 
and are prepared for the emergencies that must follow ; but there 
are some who are always taken by surprise. She, too, became pale 
with horror and dismay. She ought to have foreseen it — she ought 


THE LADIES LIHDORES. 


I9S 

to have guarded against it ; but before she had so much as anticipa- 
ted such a danger, here it was ! 

“ I mean,” she faltered that she should — meet only the best peo- 
ple, go to the best houses — and all that sort of thing ; even that she 
should be perfectly dressed ; he goes so far as that,” she said, with 
an uneasy laugh. 

John did not make any reply. He bowed his head slightly, that 
was all. He found himself, indeed, caught in such a whirlpool of 
strange emotion, that he could not trust his voice, nor even his 
thoughts, which were rushing headlong on each other’s heels like 
horses broken loose, and were altogether beyond his control. 

‘‘ But he is himself as impulsive as a boy,” cried the unlucky 
mother, rushing into the original subject with no longer any very 
clear perception what it was; ‘‘and Mr. Torrance’s manner, you 
know, is sometimes — offensive to a sensitive person. He does not 
mean it,” she added, hurriedly ; “people have such different de- 
grees of perception.” 

“ Yes — people have very different degrees of perception,” said 
John, dreamily. He did not mean it as a reproach. It was the only 
observation that occurred to him ; his mind was in too great a tur- 
moil to be able to form any idea. To think he had never budged 
from his place at her feet, and that all in a moment this should have 
happened ! He felt as if, like a man in a fairy tale, he had been 
suddenly carried off from the place in which he was, and was hearing 
voices and seeing visions from some dull distance, scarcely knowing 
what they meant. 

Meanwhile Millefleurs purled on like the softest little stream — 
smooth English brooklet, without breaks or bowlders. He was 
never tired of talking, and himself was his genial theme. “ I am 
aware that I am considered egotistical,” he said. “ I talk of things 
I am acquainted with. Now, you know most things better than I do 
— oh yeth ! women are much better educated nowadays than men ; 
but my limited experiences are, in their way, original. I love to talk 
of what I know. Then my life over yonder was such fun. If I were 
to tell you what my mates called me, you would adopt the name ever 
after by way of laughing at me ; but there was no ridicule in their 
minds.” 

“I hope you don’t think I would take any such liberty. Lord 
Millefleurs ? ” 

“ It would be no liberty ; it would be an honor. I wish you 
would do it. They called me Tommy over there. Now, my re- 
spectable name is Julian. Imagine what a downfall ! I knew you 
would laugh ; but they meant no harm. I acknowledge myself that 
it was very appropriate. When a man has the misfortune to be 
plump and not very tall — I am aware that is a pretty way of put- 
ting it ; but then, you don’t expect me to describe my personal ap- 
pearance in the coarsest terms — it is so natural to call him Tommy. 
I was the nurse when any of them were ill. You have no notion how 
grateful they were, these rough fellows. They used to curse me, 
you know — that was their way of being civil — and ask where I had 


196 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


got such soft hands.” Here Millefleurs produced those articles, and 
looked at them with a certain tenderness. ‘‘ I was always rather 
vain of my hands,” he said, with the most childlike naivete, but 
never so much as when Jack and Tim d — d them, in terms which I 
couldn’t repeat in a lady’s presence, and asked me where the some- 
thing I had learned to touch a fellow like that ? It occurred to me 
after that I might have studied surgery, and been of some use that 
way; but I was too old,” he said, a soft little sigh agitating his plump 
bosom — and then I have other duties. Fortune has been hard 
upon me,” he added, raising pathetically the eyes, which were like 
beads, yet which languished and became sentimental as they turned 
upward. It was when he spoke of Jack and Tim that Edith had 
looked at him so prettily, bertding forward, touched by his tale; but 
now she laughed without concealment, with a frank outburst of 
mirth in which the little hero joined with great good humor, not- 
withstanding the pathos in his eyes. 

This pair were on the happiest terms, fully understanding each 
other ; but it was very diiferent with the others, between whom con- 
versation had wholly ceased. Lady Lindores now drew her shawl 
round her, and complained that it was getting chilly. ‘‘ That is the 
worst of Scotland,” she said — you can never trust the finest day. 
A sharp wind will come round a corner all in a moment and spoil 
your pleasure.” This was most unprovoked slander of the northern 
skies, which were beaming down upon her at the moment with utmost 
brightness, and promising hours of sunshine ; but after such a speech 
there was nothing to be done but to go downhill again to the house, 
where the carriage was waiting. John, who lingered behind to pull 
himself together after his downfall, found, to his great surprise, that 
Edith lingered too. But it seemed to him that he was incapable of 
saying anything to her. To point the contrast between himself and 
Millefleurs by a distracted silence, that, of course, was the very thing 
to do to take away any shadow of a chance he might still have. But 
he had no chance. What possibility was there that an obscure 
country gentleman, who had never done anything to distinguish him- 
self, should be able to stand for a moment against the son of a rich 
duke, a marquis, a millionnaire, and a kind of little hero to boot, who 
had been very independent and original, and made himself a certain 
reputation, though it was one of which some people might be afraid ? 
There was only one thing in which he was Millefleurs’s superior, but 
that was the meanest and poorest of all. John felt inclined to burst 
out into savage and brutal laughter at those soft curves and flowing 
outlines, as the little man, talking continuously, as he had talked to 
Edith, walked on in front with her mother. The impulse made him 
more and more ashamed of himself, and yet he was so mean as to 
indulge it, feeling himself a cad and nothing else. Edith laughed too, 
softly, under her breath. But she said, quickly, We should not 
laugh at him, Mr. Erskine. He is a very goodTittle man. He has 
done more than all of us put together. They called him Tommy in 
America,” said the traitress, with another suppressed laugh. John 
was for a moment softened by the “ we ” with which she began and 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


197 


the gibe with which she ended. But his ill-humor and jealous rage 
were too much for him. 

“ He is Marquis of Millefleurs, and he will be Duke of Lavender,” 
he said, with an energy which was savage, trampling down the tough 
heather under his feet. 

Edith turned and looked at him with astonished eyes. It was a 
revelation to her also, though for the first moment she scarcely knew 
of what. Do you think it is for that reason we like him, Mr. Ers- 
kine ? How strange ! ” she said, and turned her eyes away with a 
proud movement of her head, full of indignation and scorn. John 
felt himself the pettiness and petulance of which he had been guilty ; 
but he was very unhappy, and it seemed to him impossible to say or 
do anything by which he might get himself pardoned. So he walk- 
ed along moodily by her side, saying nothing, while Lord Millefleurs 
held forth just a few steps in advance. Edith bent forward to hear 
what he was saying, in the continued silence of her companion, and 
this was a renewed draught of wormwood and gall to John, though it 
was his own fault. It was with relief that he put the ladies into their 
carriage, and saw them drive away, though this relief was changed 
into angry impatience when he found that Millefleurs lingered with 
the intention of walking, and evidently calculated upon his company. 
The little marquis, indeed, took his arm with friendly ease, and turn- 
ed him with gentle compulsion toward the avenue. ‘‘You are going 
to walk with me,” he said. “ An excellent thing in Scotland is that 
it is never too warm to walk, even for me. Come and talk a little. 
I have been telling tales about myself. I have not heard anything 
of you. The first is such an easy subject. One has one’s little ex- 
periences, which are different from any one else’s ; and wherever 
there are kind women you find your audience, dont you know ? ” 

“ No, I don’t know,” said John, abruptly. “ It never occurs to 
me to talk about myself. I can’t see what interest anybody can have 
in things that happen to me. Besides, few things do happen, for 
that matter,” he added, in an undertone. 

“ My dear fellow,” said Millefleurs, “ I don’t want to appear to 
teach you, who are a man of much more intelligence than I. But 
that ith a mithtake, I must say it. You can always talk best on the 
subject you know best. Don’t you find it a gi*eat differeni:e coming 
here after knocking about the world? Yes, I feel it; but society is 
quite fresh to me, as fresh as California while it lasts. Then I have 
had my eyes opened as to my duties. My father and mother are as 
kind as possible. A friend of mine tells me, and I am partly con- 
vinced, that to keep them comfortable is my chief business. You 
are of that opinion too : there is much to be said for it. It belongs 
to civilization; but so long as civilization lasts, perhaps — And so 
I am going to marry and range myseif,” Millefleurs said, with his air 
of ineffable self-satisfaction, turning up the palms of his fat pink- 
tinged hands. 

“ Really ! ” John cried, with faint derision, feeling as if this inno- 
cent exclamation were an oath. And the lady ? ” he added, with 
a still more fierce laugh. 


198 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


Millefleurs gave his arm a little squeeze. Not settled y^t,” he 
said — not settled yet. I have seen a great many. There are so 
many pretty persons in society. If any one of them would ask me, 
I have no doubt I should be perfectly happy ; but choice is always 
disagreeable. In America also,” he added, with some pathos, there 
are many very pretty persons, and they like a title. The field is very 
wide. Let us take an easier subject. Is Beaufort coming to you ?” 

‘‘ His answer is very enigmatical,” said John. ‘‘ I do not know 
whether he means to come or not.” 

He is enigmatical,” said Millefleurs. He is the queerest fel- 
low. What is the connection between him and the family here ? ” 

This question took John entirely by surprise. It was so sudden, 
both in form and meaning. He had expected his companion, before 
he paused, to go on for at least five minutes more. He hesitated in 
spite of himself. 

There is no connection that I know of between him and the 
family here.” 

Oh yes, yes, there is,” said Millefleurs, with gentle pertinacity ; 
think a minute. Erskine, my dear fellow, forgive me, but you 
must have Beaufort here. If he is not near me, he will lose the con- 
fidence of my papa, who will think Beaufort is neglecting his precious 
son. I speak to you with perfect freedom. Beaufort and I under- 
stand each other. I am in no need of a governor, but he is in want 
of a protige. Don’t you see ? By this arrangement everything is 
made comfortable. Beaufort understands me. He knows that con- 
trol is a mistake in my case. He found me and brought me home^ 
because I was already on my way ; he keeps me from harm — for 
what you call harm has no attraction for me, don’t you know ? It is 
only my curiosity that has to be kept in check, and at present I have 
plenty to occupy that ; but my father does not understand all this. 
Minds of that generation are a little limited, don’t you know ? They 
don’t see so clearly as one would wish them to see. If Beaufort is 
long away from me, he will think I am in danger — that I may bolt 
again. Also, it' will interfere with Beaufort’s prospects, whihc the 
duke is to take- charge of ” 

But this seems to me rather — not quite straightforward on Beau- 
fort's p’^irty’ said John. 

At this li< \c Millefleurs shrugged his plump shoulders. It is 
permitted to i. imor our eiders,” he said. ‘‘ It pleases them, and it 
does no one any harm - Beaufort, don’t you know, is not a fellow to 
walk alone. He'ls clever and all that ; but he will never do any- 
thing by himself. Between him and me it suits very well. So, to 
save the duke’s feelings and to Iielp Beaufort on, you must stretch a 
point and have him here. ^ t vfil be thought he is watching over 
ine at a little distance, like \he sweet little cherub, don’t you 
know, in the song? What objection have they got to seeing him 
here ? ” 

None that I know of,” said John, steadily, turning his face to 
the other side to escape the scrutiny of those small black bead-like 
eyes. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


199 


Oh come, come, come ! ” said little Millefleurs, remonstrating 
yet coaxing, patting him lightly on the arm ; one sees it must 
have been one of the daughters. It will do no harm to tell me. 
Am I such an ignorant ? These things are happening every day. 
Is it this one here ? ” 

What are you thinking of ? ” cried John, angrily. Lady Edith 
was only a child. 

‘‘Ah, then it was the other one!” Millefleurs said, seriously; 
“ that suits me better. It would have been a trifle ridiculous — 
Beaufort might keep in the background if there is any reason for 
it ; but we-inust really think of the duke. He will be in a state of 
mind, don’t you know ? and so will my mother. They will think I 
have bolted again.” 

“ And when is it,” said John, satirically, for he was sick at heart 
and irritable in the discovery which he had made, “that Beaufort’s 
mission is to be accomplished, and the duke to fulfil his hopes ? ” 

Millefleurs laughed a soft rich laugh, not loud. “ My dear 
fellow,” he said, “that is when I marry, don’t you know? That 
is my occupation now in the world. When I have a wife, the other 
will be off duty. I am much interested in my occupation at pres- 
ent ; it brings so many specimens of humanity under one’s eyes. 
So different — for women are just as different as men, though you 
don’t think so, perhaps. It might make a man vain,” he said, turn- 
ing out his pink-tinged palm, “to see how many fair features will 
take notice of him ; but then one remembers that it was not always 
so, and that takes one down again. In California I was liked, 1 am 
proud to say, but not admired. It was, perhaps, more amusing. 
But I must not be ungrateful ; for life everywhere is very entertain- 
ing. And here are fresh fields and pastures new,” said the little 
man. “ When you have a pursuit, every new place is doubly 
interesting. It does not matter whether you are hunting or botan- 
izing or — A pursuit gives interest to all things. Now is the time for 
the country and rural character. I sometimes think it is that which 
will suit me best.” 

“ Then I suppose you are on a tour of inspection, and one of 
our country young ladies may have the honor of pleasing you,” said 
John, somewhat fiercely. His companion looking up in his face 
with deprecating looks, patted his arm as a kind of protest. 

“ Don’t be brutal, Erskine,” he said, with his little lisp ; “ such 
things are never said.” John would have liked to take him in his 
teeth and shake him as a dog does, so angry was he, and furious. 
But little Millefleurs meant no harm. He drew his old school-fellow 
along with him, as long as John’s civility held out. Then, to see 
him strolling along with his little hat pushed on the top of his little 
round head, and all the curves of his person repeating the lines of 
that circle ! John stopped to look after him with a laugh which he 
could scarcely restrain so long as Millefleurs was within hearing. It 
was an angry laugh, though there was nothing in the young man to 
give occasion for it. There was nothing really in him that was con- 
temptible, for to be plump is not an offence by any code. But John 


200 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


watched him with the fiercest derision going along the country road 
with his cane held in two fingers, his hat curling in the brim, his 
locks curling the other way. And this was the man whom even 
Lady Lindores — even she, a woman so superior to worldly motives — 
condescended to scheme about. And Edith ? was it possible that 
she, too~even she ? Everything seemed to have turned to bitter- 
ness in John^ soul. Tinto before him in the distance, with its 
flaunting flag, gave emphasis to the discovery he had made. For 
mere money, nothing else, one had been sacrificed. The other, was 
she to be sacrificed too? Was there nothing but wealth to be 
thought of all the world over, even by the best people^^y women 
with every tender grace and gift ? When he thought of the part in 
the drama allotted to himself — to entertain Beaufort, who was the 
keeper of Millefleurs, in order that Millefleurs might be at liberty to 
follow his present pursuit — John burst into a laugh not much more 
melodious than that of Torrance. Beaufort and he could condole 
with each other. They could communicate, each to each, their 
several disappointments. But to bring to the neighborhood this 
man whom Carry dared not see, whom with such tragic misery in 
her face she had implored John to keep at a distance — and that it 
should be her parents who were bringing him in cold blood in order 
to advance their schemes for her sister — was it possible that any- 
thing so base or cruel could be ? 


CHAPTER XXIV, 

The thing is that he must be brought to the point. I said so 
in town. He dangled after her all the season, and he’s dangled after 
her down here. The little beggar kndWs better than that. He knows 
that sharp people would never stand it. He is trusting to your 
country simplicity. When a man does not come to the point of his 
own accord, he must be led to it — or driven to it, for that matter,” 
said Rintoul. He was out of humor, poor fellow. He had gone 
astray in his own person. His disapproval of his mother and of 
everybody belonging to him was nothing in comparison with his dis- 
approval of himself. This put him out in every way ; instead of 
making him tolerant of the others, who were no worse than himself, 
it made him rampant in his wisdom. If it was so that he could not 
persuade or force himself into the right way, then was it more and 
more necessary to persuade or force other people. He took a high 
tone with Lady Lindores, all the more because he had discovered 
with astonishment, and a comical sort of indignation, that his mother 
had come over to his way of thinking. He could not believe it to be 
possible at first, and afterward this inconsistent young man had felt 
disgusted with the new accomplice whom he had in his heart be- 
lieved incapable of any such conversion. But such being the case. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


201 


there was no need to mena^er her susceptibilities. Or driven to 
it,” he repeated, with emphasis. I shall not stand by, I promise 
you, and see my sister ptante id ” 

You have used these words before, Rintoul. They disgust me, 
and they offend me,” said his mother. I will not be a party to 
anything of the kind. Those who do such things dishonor the girl — 
oh, far more than anything else can do. She does not care at all 
for him. Most likely she would refuse him summarily.” 

‘‘ And you would let her — refuse a dukedom ? ” cried Rintoul. 

Refuse a — man whom she does not care for. What could I do? 
I should even like now, after all that has happened, that it should 
come to something ; but if she found that she could not marry him, 
how could I interfere ? ” 

^‘Jove! but I should interfere,” cried Rintoul, pacing up and 
down the room. How could you help interfering? Would you 
suffer me to throw away all my prospects ? ” Here he paused, with 
a curious, half-threatening, half-deprecating look. Perhaps his 
mother would be one who would suffer him to sacrifice his prospects. 
Perhaps she would sympathize with him even in that wrong-doing. 
She was capable of it. He looked at her with mingled disdain and 
admiration. She was a woman who was capable of applauding him 
for throwing himself away. What folly ! and yet perhaps it was 
good to have a mother like that. But not for Edith, whose case was 
of an altogether different complexion from his own. He made a 
pause, and then he added in a slightly louder tone, being excited. 
But he must not be allowed to dangle on forever. When a fellow 
follows a girl into the country he must mean something. You may 
take my word for that,” 

At this moment the handle of the door gave a slight clink ; a 
soft step was audible. Pardon me for disturbing you, dearest 
lady,” said the mellifluous voice of Millefleurs. The little marquis 
had a foot which made no sound on the carpet. He was daintily at- 
tired, and all his movements were noiseless. He came upon these 
startled conspirators like a ghost. Send me away if I am de tropp 
he said, clasping his plump hands. It is my hour of audience, 
but Rintoul has the first claim.” 

Oh, I don’t want any audience,” said Rintoul. He had ex- 
changed an anxious glance with his mother, and both had reddened 
in spite of themselves. Not to betray that you have been discussing 
some one who appears, while the words of criticism are still on your 
lips, is difficult at all times ; and Rintoul, feeling confused and 
guilty, was anxious to give the interrupted conversation an air of in- 
significance. My mother and I have no secrets. She is not so 
easy as the mothers in society,” he said, with a laugh. 

No,” said Millefleurs, folding his hands with an air of devotion, 
I would not discuss the chronique sca7tdaleuse, if that is what you 
mean, in Lady Lindores’s hearing. The air is pure here ; it is like 
living out-of-doors. There is no dessous des cartes — no behind the 
scenes.” 

What does the little beggar mean? ” Rintoul said to himself, 

9 * 


202 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


feeling red and uncomfortable. Lady Lindores took up her work, 
which was her flag of distress. She felt herself humiliated beyond 
description. To think that she should be afraid of any one over- 
hearing what she said or what her son had said to her ! She felt her 
cheeks burn and tingle ; her needle trembled in her fingers ; and 
then there ensued a most uncomfortable pause. Had he heard what 
they were saying? Rintoul did not go away, which would have been 
the best policy but stood about, taking up books and throwing them 
down again, and wearing, which was the last thing he wished to do, 
the air of a man disturbed in an important consultation. As a 
matter of fact, his mind was occupied with two troublesome questions ; 
the first, whether Millefleurs had overheard anything ; the second, 
how he could himself getaway. Millefleurs very soon perceived and 
partook this embarrassment. The phrase which had been uttered 
as he opened the door had reached his ear without affecting his 
mind for the first moment. Perhaps, if he had not perceived the em- 
barrassment of the speaker, he would not have given any weight to 
the words, When a fellow follows — Funny alliteration r he said 
to himself. And then he saw that the mother and son were greatly 
disturbed by his entrance. He was as much occupied by wondering 
what they could mean, as they were by wondering if he had heard. 
But he was the first to cut the difficulty. He said, “ Pardon me, 
dear lady, I have forgotten something — Pll come back directly if 
you’ll let me ” — and went out. Certainly there had been some dis- 
cussion going on between mother and son. Perhaps Rintoul had 
got into debt, perhaps into love ; both were things which occurred 
daily, and it was always best when such a subject had been started 
between parent and child that they should have it out. So he with- 
drew, but with that phrase still buzzing in his ears, ‘‘ When a fellow 
follows — ” It was a comical combination of words ; he could not 
get rid of it, and presently it began to disturb his mind. Instead of 
going to the library or any of the other rooms in the house, he went 
outside, with the sensation of having something to reflect upon, 
though he could not be sure what it was. By and by the entire sen- 
tence came to his recollection. When a fellow follows a girl into 
the country — but then, who is it that has followed a girl into the 
country? Rintoul?” This cost him about five minutes’ thought. 
Then little Millefleurs stopped short in the midst of the path, and 
clasped his hands against his plump bosom, and turned up his eyes 
to heaven. Why, it is I ! ” he said to himself, being more gram- 
matical than most men in a state of agitation. He stood for a whole 
minute in this attitude, among the big blue-green araucarias which 
stood around. What a subject for a painter if there had been one 
at hand ! It was honor confrontingTate. He had not intended any- 
thing so serious. He liked, he would have said loved, the ladies of 
the house. He would not have hesitated anywhere to give full utter- 
ance to this sentiment ; and to please his father, and to amuse him- 
self, he was consciously on the search for some one who might be 
suitable for the vacant post of Marchioness of Millefleurs. And he 
had thought of Edith in that capacity — certainly he had thought of 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


203 


her. So had he thought of various other young ladies in society, 
turning over their various claims. But it had not occurred to him 
to come to any sudden decision, or to think that necessary. As he 
stood there, however, with his eyes upraised, invoking aid from that 
paternal Providence which watches over marquises, a flood of light 
spread over the subject and all its accessories. Though he had not 
thought of them, he knew the prejudices of society ; and all that 
Rintoul had said about leaving a girl plante la was familiar to him. 

When a fellow follows” (absurd alliteration ! said Millefleurs, with 
his lisp, to himself) ‘‘ a girl into the country, he muth mean thome- 
thing ; ” and once more he clasped his hands and pressed them to 
his breast. His eyes, raised to heaven, took a languishing look ; a 
smile of consciousness played about his mouth ; but this was only 
for a moment, and was replaced at once by a look of firm resolution. 
No maiden owed her scath to Millefleurs : though he was so plump, 
he was the soul of honor. Not for amioment could he permit it to be 
supposed that he was trifling with Edith Lindores — amusing himself 
— any of those pretty phrases in use in society. He thought with 
horror of the possibility of having compromised her, even though, so 
far as he was himself concerned* the idea was not disagreeable. In 
five minutes — for he had a quick little brain and the finest faculty of 
observation, a quality cultivated in his race by several centuries of 
social eminence — Millefleurs had mastered the situation. All the in- 
structions that Rintoul had so zealously endeavored to convey to his 
mother’s mind became apparent to Millefleurs in the twinkling of an 
eye. It would be said that he had left her platitd la ; he allowed 
himself no illusion on the subject. So it might be said — but so it 
never must be said of Edith Lindores. He was perfectly chivalrous 
in his instant decision. He was not to say in love — though, did Pro- 
vidence bestow any one of five or six young ladies, among whom 
Edith stood high, upon him, Millefleurs felt positively convinced 
that he would be the happiest man in the world. And he was not 
sure that he might not be running the risk of a refusal, a thing which 
is very appalling to a young man’s irqagination. But notwithstand- 
ing this danger, Millefleurs, without hesitation, braced himself up to 
do his duty. He buttoned his coat, took off his hat and put it on 
again, and then pulling himself together, went off without a moment’s 
hesitation in search of Lord Lindores. 

An hour later the earl entered his lady’s chamber with a counte- 
nance in which gratification, and proud content in an achieved suc- 
cess were only kept in check by the other kind of pride which would 
not permit it to be perceived that this success was anything out of 
the ordinary. He told her his news in a few brief words, which 
Lady Lindores received with so much agitation, turning from red to 
white, and with such an appearance of vexation and pain that the 
earl put on his sternest aspect. What is the meaning of all this 
flurry and disturbance ? ” he said ; I hope we are not going to 
have it all over again, as we had before Carry’s wedding ? ” 

Oh, don’t speak of poor Carry’s wedding in comparison with 


204 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


this. This, God grant it ! if it comes to pass, will be no degradation 
— no misery 

‘‘Not much degradation, certainly — only somewhere about the 
best position in England,” with angry scorn Lord Lindores said. 

But the lines were not smoothed away from his wife’s forehead, 
nor did the flush of shame and pain leave her face. She looked at 
him for a moment to see whether she should tell him. But why 
poison his pleasure ? “ It is not his fault,” she said to herself ; and 

all that she gave utterance to was an anxious exclamation — “ Pro- 
vided that Edith sees as we do ! ” 

“ She must see as we do,” Lord Lindores said. 

But when Rintoul came in, his mother went to him and seized his 
arm with both her hands. . “ He heard what you said ! ” she cried, 
wdth anguish in her voice. “ Now I shall never be able to hold up 
my head in his presence — he heard what you said ! ” 

Rintoul too, notwithstanding his more enlightened views, was 
somewhat red. Though it was in accordance with l>is principles, 
yet the fact of having helped to force, in any way, a proposal for 
his sister, caused him an unpleasant sensation. He tried to carry it 
off with a laugh. “ Anyhow, since it has brought him to the point,” 
he said. 

This was the day on which Millefleurs was to be taken to Tinto 
to see the house and all its curiosities and wealth. In view of this he 
had begged that nothing might be said to Edith, with a chivalrous 
desire to save her pain should her answer be unfavorable. But how 
could Lady Lindores keep such a secret from her daughter ? While 
she was still full of the excitement, the painful triumph, the terror 
and shame with which she had received the news, Edith came into 
the morning-room, which to-day had been the scene of so many im- 
portant discussions. They had been perhaps half an hour together, 
going gayly on with the flood of light-hearted conversation about 
anything and nothing which is natural between a girl and her mother, 
when she suddenly caught a glimpse in the mirror of Lady Lindores’s 
troubled face. The girl rushe^ to her instantly, took this disturbed 
countenance between her hands, and turned it with gentle force 
toward her. Her own face grew grave at once. “ Something is the 
matter,” she said : “ something has happened. Oh, mother, darling, 
what is it ? something about Carry ? ” 

“No, no ; nothing, nothing ! Certainly nothing that is un- 
happy — Don’t question me now, Edith. Afterward you shall 
know it all.” 

“ Let me know it now,” the girl said ; and she insisted with that 
filial tyranny against which mothers are helpless. At last Lady Lin- 
dores, being pressed into a corner, murmured something about 
Lord Millefleurs. “ If he speaks to you to-night, oh, my darling ! 
if he asks you, do not be hasty ; say nothing, say nothing, without 
thought.” 

“ Speaks to me — asks me ! ” Edith stood wonder-stricken, her 
eyes wide open, her lips apart. “ What should he ask me ? ” She 
grew a little pale in spite of herself. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


20 $ 


My dearest ! what should he ask you ? What is it that a young 
man asks — in such circumstances ? He will ask you — perhaps — to 
marry him.” 

Edith gave a kind of shriek, and then burst into a peal of agitated 
laughter. Mother, dear, what a fright you have given me ! I 
thought — I didn’t know what to think. Poor little man ! Don’t let 
him do it — don’t let him do it, mamma — it would make us both 
ridiculous ! and if it made him at all unhappy — But that is non- 
sense — you are only making fun of me,” said the girl, kissing her 
with a hurried eagerness as if to silence her. Lady Lindores drew 
herself away from her daughter’s embrace. 

Edith, it is you who are making yourself ridiculous — consider 
how he has sought you all this time — and he came after you to the 
country. I have felt what was coming all along. My dearest, did 
not you suspect it too ? ” 

Edith stood within her mother’s arm, but she was angry and held 
herself apart, not leaning upon the bosom where she had rested so 
often. / suspect it ! how could I suspect it ? ” she cried. It went 
to Lady Lindores’s heart to feel her child straighten herself up, and 
keep apart from her and all her caresses. 

“ Edith, for God’s sake, do not set yourself against it ! Think, 
only think ” 

‘‘ What has Godrgot to do with it, mother ? ” the young creature 
cried, sternly. I will set myself against it — nay, more than that. 
I am not like Carry ; nothing in the world will make me do it — not 
any reason, not any argument.” She was still encircled by her 
mother’s arm, but she stood straight, upright, erect as a willow wand, 
unyielding, drawing her garments, as it were, about her, insensible 
to the quivering lines of her mother’s upturned face and the softer 
strain of her embrace. No, not indifferent — but resisting — shutting 
her eyes to them, holding herself apart. 

For Heaven’s sake, Edith ! Oh, my darling, think how differ- 
ent this is from the other ! Your father has set his heart on it, and 

I wish it too. And Millefleurs is — Millefleurs will be- ” 

Is this how you persuaded Carry?” cried Edith, with sad in- 
dignation ; “ but mother, mother, listen ! not me. It is better that 
never another word should be said between us on this subject, for I 
will never do it, whatever may be said. If my father chooses to 
speak to me, I will give him my answer. Let us say no more — not 
another word ! ” And with this the girl unbent and threw herself 
upon her mother, and stopped her mouth with kisses, indignant, im- 
passioned — her cheeks hot and flushed, her eyes full of angry tears. 

It may be thought that the drive to Tinto of this strange party, 
all palpitating with the secret which each thought unknown to the 
other, was a curious episode enough. Millefleurs, satisfied with him- 
self, and feeling the importance of his position — with so much to 
bestow — found, he thought, a sympathetic response in the look of 
Lady Lindores, to whom, no doubt, as was quite right, her husband 
had disclosed the great news ; but he thought that Edith was entirely 
ignorant of it. And Edith and her mother had their secret on their 


2o6 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


side, the possession of which was more momentous still. But they 
all talked and smiled with the little pleasantries and criticisms that 
are inevitable in the conversation of persons of the highest and most 
cultivated classes, and did not betray what was in their hearts. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

John Erskine was on the steps leading to the great central 
entrance when the carriage from Lindores drove up at the door. It 
was not by chance that he found himself there, for he was aware of 
the intended visit ; and with the sombre attraction which the sight 
of a rival and an adversary has for a man, felt himself drawn toward 
the scene in which an act of this drama, in which his happi- 
ness was involved, was going on. He hurried down before the foot- 
man to get to the carriage -door and hand the ladies out. He had 
seen them several times since that day when Lady Lindores, unused 
to deception, had allowed the secret to slip from her. And he had 
accustomed himself to the fact that Millefleurs, who was in person 
and aspect so little alarming, but in other ways the most irresistible 
of rivals, was in full possession of the field before him. But John, 
with quickened insight, had also perceived that no decisive step had 
as yet been taken, and with infinite relief was able to persuade him- 
self that Edith as yet was no party to the plot, and was unaware 
what was coming. He saw in a moment now that some important 
change had come over the state of affairs. Lady Lindores avoided 
his eye, but Edith looked at him, he thought, with a sort of appeal 
in her face — a question — a wondering demand, full of mingled defi- 
ance and deprecation. So much in one look ! and yet there seemed to 
him even more than all this. What had happened ? Millefleurs was 
conscious too. There was a self-satisfaction about him more evident, 
more marked than usual. He put out his chest a little more. He 
held his head higher, though he refrained from any special demon- 
stration in respect to Edith. There was an air about him as of a 
man who had taken some remarkable initiative. His very step 
touched the ground with more weight ; his round eyes contemplated 
all things with a more bland and genial certainty of being able to 
solve every difficulty. And Rintbul had a watchful look as of a man 
on his guard — a keen spectator, vigilantly attentive to everthing — un- 
certain whether even yet he might not be called upon to interfere. 
All this John Erskine saw at one glance — not clearly, as it is set 
down here, but vaguely, with confused perceptions which he could 
not disentangle, which conveyed no distinct information to his mind, 
but only a warning — an intimation which set every vein of him tin- 
gling. Lady Lindores would not meet his eye ; but Edith looked at 
him with that strange look of question. How much do you know ? 
it seemed to say. What do you suspect ? and, with a flash of indig- 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


207 


nation, do you suspect me ? do you doubt me ? He thought there 
was all this, or something like it, in her eyes ; and yet he could not 
tell what they meant, nor, so far as she was concerned, what length 
her knowledge went. He met her look with one in which another 
question bore the chief part. But it was much less clear to Edith 
what that question meant. They were all as conscious as it was pos- 
sible for human creatures (each shut up within the curious envelope 
of his own identity, imperfectly comprehending any other) to be. 
The air tingled with meaning round them. They were all aware, 
strangely, yet naturally, of standing on the edge of fate. 

Lady Caroline and her husband received this party in the great 
drawing-room which was used on state occasions : everything had 
been thrown open, professedly that Lord Millefleurs should see, but 
really that Lord Millefleurs should be dazzled by, the splendor which 
Torrance devoutly believed to be unrivalled. It was in order that he 
m.ight see the effect of all the velvet and brocade, all the gilding and 
carving, upon the stranger, that he had waited to receive the party 
from Lindores with his wife, a thing quite unusual to him ; and he 
was in high expectation and good-humor, fully expecting to be flat- 
tered and gratified. There was a short pause of mutual civilities, to 
begin with, during which Torrance was somewhat chilled and 
affronted to see that the little marquis remained composed, and dis- 
played no awe, though he looked about him with his quick little 
round eyes. 

You will have heard, Lady Caroline^how Lhave lost any little 
scrap of reputation I ever had,” Millefleurs said, clasping his plump 
hands. I am no shot : it is true, though I ought to be ashamed to 
acknowledge it. And I don’t care to follow flying things on foot. If 
there was a balloon, indeed ! I am an impostor at this season. I am 
occupying the place of some happy person who might make a large 
bag every day.” 

But there is room for all those happy persons without disturb- 
ing you, who have other qualities,” said Carry, with her soft, pa- 
thetic smile. There was a little tremor about her, and catching of 
her breath, for she did not know at what moment might occur that 
name which always agitated her, however she might fortify herself 
against it. 

If not at Lindores, there’s always plenty of room at Tinto,” 
said Torrance, with ostentatious openness. There’s room for a 
regiment here. I have a few fellows coming for the partridges, but 
not half enough to fill the house. Whenever you like, you and your 
belongings, as many as you please, whether it’s servants or guar- 
dians,” Torrance said, with his usual rude laugh. 

Something like an electric shock ran round the company. Mille- 
fleurs was the only one who received it without the smallest evidence 
of understanding what it was. He looked up in Torrance’s face 
with an unmoved aspect. ‘‘I don’t travel with a suite,” he said, 
‘‘ though I am much obliged to you all the same. It is my father 
who carries all sorts of people about with him. And I love my pres- 
ent quarters,” said the little marquis, directing a look toward Lady 


2o8 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


Lindores of absolute devotion. I will not go away unless I am 
sent away. A man who has knocked about the world knows when 
he is well off. I will go to Erskine, and be out of the way during the 
hours when I am de trop.'*'* 

^‘Erskine is filling his house too, I suppose,’^ Torrance said. 
And then, having got all that was practicable in the shape of offence 
out of this subject, he proposed that they should make the tour 
of what had been always called the state apartments at Tinto. 

There^s a few things to show,” he said, affecting humility ; not 
much to you who have been about the world, as you say, but still a 
few things that we think something of in this out-of-the-way place.” 
Then he added, Lady Car had better be the showman, for she knows 
more about them than I do, though I was born among them.” This 
was the highest possible pleasure to Pat Torrance. To show off his 
possessions, to which he professed to be indifferent, with an intended 
superiority in his rude manliness to anything so finicking, by means 
of his wife — his proudest and finest possession of all — was delightful 
to him. He lounged after them, keeping close to the party, ready 
with all his being to enjoy Lady Car’s description of the things that 
merited admiration. He was in high good-humor, elated with the 
sense of his position as her husband and the owner of all this gran- 
deur. He felt that the little English lord would now see what a 
Scotch country gentleman could be, what a noble, distinguished 
wife he could get for himself, and what a house he could bring her 
to. Unfortunately, Lord Millefleurs, whose delight was to talk 
about Californian miners and their habitudes, was familiar with 
greater houses than Tinto, and had been born in the purple and 
slept on rose-leaves all his life. He admired politely what he was 
evidently expected to admire, but he gave vent to no enthusiasm. 
When they came to the great dining-room, with its huge vases and 
marble pillars, he looked round upon it with a countenance of com- 
plete seriousness, not lightened by any gratification. ‘‘ Yes — I see ; 
everything is admirably in keeping,” he said; ‘‘an excellent ex- 
ample of the period. It is so seldom one sees this sort of thing 
nowadays. Everybody has begun to try to improve, don’t you 
know ? and the 7nieux is always the ennemi du bien. This is all of 
a piece, don’t you know ? It is quite perfect of its kind.” 

“ What does the little beggar mean ? ” it was now Torrance’s 
turn to say to himself. It sounded, no doubt, like praise, but his 
watchful suspicion and jealousy were aroused. He tried his usual 
expedient of announcing how much it had cost ; but Millefleurs — 
confound the little beggar ! — received the intimation with perfect 
equanimity. He was not impressed. He made Torrance a little 
bow and said, with his lisp, “ Yeth, very cothtly alwayth — the 
materials are all so expensive, don’t you know ? ” But he could not 
be brought to say anything more. Even Lady Caroline felt de- 
pressed by his gravity ; for insensibly, though she ought to have 
known better, she had got to feel that all the wealth of Tinto — its 
marbles, its gilding, its masses of ornate plate, and heavy decora- 
tions — must merit consideration. They had been reckoned among 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


209 


the things for which she had been sacrificed — they were part of her 
price, so to speak ; and if they were not splendid and awe-inspiring, 
then her sacrifice had indeed been made in vain. Poor Lady Caro- 
line was not in a condition to meet with any farther discouragement ; 
and to feel that her husband was beginning to lose his air of elated 
good-humor gave an additional tremor to the nervousness which 
possessed her. She knew what he would say about your fine 
friends,” and how he would swear that no such visitors should ever 
be asked to his house again. She went on mechanically saying her 
little lesson by heart, pointing out all the great pieces of modern 
Sevres and Dresden. Her mind was full of miserable thoughts. 
She wanted to catch John Erskine’s eye, to put an imploring ques- 
tion to him with eyes or mouth. Is he coming?” this was what 
she wanted to say. But she could not catch John Erskine’s eye, who 
was gloomily walking behind her by the side of Edith, saying noth- 
ing. Lady Caroline could not help remarking that neither of these 
two said a word. Lady Lindores and Rintoul kept up a kind of skir- 
mishing action around them, trying now to draw one, now the 
other, into conversation, and get them apart. But the two kept by 
each other like a pair in a procession, yet never spoke. 

The period, dear lady ? ” said Millefleurs — I am not up to the 
last novelties of classification, nor scientific, don’t you know ? but I 
should say Georgian, late Georgian, or verging upon the times of 
the Royal William” — he gave a slight shiver as he spoke, perhaps 
from cold, for the windows were all open and there was a draught — 
but perfect of its kind,” he added, with a little bow, and a serious- 
ness which was more disparaging than abuse. Even Lady Carry 
smiled constrainedly, and Torrance, with a start, awoke to his sense 
of wrong, and felt that he could bear no more. 

George or Jack,” he cried, ‘‘ I don’t know anything about 
periods ; this I do know, that it ran away with a great deal of money 
— money none of us would mind having in our pockets now.” He 
stared at Rintoul as he spoke, but even Rintoul looked as if he were 
indifferent, which galled the rich man more and more. My lady 
countess and my lord marquis,” he said, with an elaborate mocking 
bow, I’ll have to ask you to excuse me. I’ve got — something to do 
that I thought I could get off, but I can’t, don’t you know ? ” and 
here he laughed again, imitating as well as he was able the seraphic 
appeal to the candor of his hearers which Millefleurs was so fond of 
making. The tone, the words, the aspect of the man, taught Mille- 
fleurs sufficiently (who was the only stranger) that he had given of- 
fence ; and the others drew closer, eager to make peace for Carry’s 
sake, who was smiling with the ordinary effort of an unhappy wife to 
make the best of it, and represent to the others that it was only her 
husband’s way.” 

But Torrance’s ill-humor was not, as usual, directed toward his 
wife. When he looked at her his face, to her great astonishment, 
softened. It was a small matter that did it ; the chief reason was 
that he saw a look of displeasure^ — of almost offence — upon his wife’s 
countenance too. She was annoyed with the contemptible little 


210 


THE LADIES LIHDORES. 


English lord as much as he was. This did not take away his rage, 
but it immediately gave him that sense that his wife was on his side, 
for which the rough fellow had always longed, and altered his aspect 
at once. As he stood looking at them, with his large light eyes 
projecting from their sockets, a flush of offence on his cheeks, a 
forced laugh on his mouth, his face softened all in a moment. This 
time she was no longer the chief antagonist to be subdued, but his 
natural supporter and champion. He laid his heavy hand upon her 
shoulder with a pride of proprietorship, which for once she did not 
seem to contest. ‘‘Lady Car,” he said, “ she’s my deputy : she’ll 
take care of you better than I.” 

Lady Caroline, with an involuntary, almost affectionate, response, 
put her hand on his arm. “ Don’t go,” she said, lifting her face to 
him with an eloquence of suppressed and tremulous emotion all 
about her which, indeed, had little reference to this ill-humor of his, 
but helped to dignify it, and take away the air of trivial rage and 
mortification which had been too evident at first. Lady Lindores, 
too, made a step forward with the same intention. He stood and 
looked at them with a curious medley of feeling, touched at once by 
the pleasure of a closer approach to his wife, and by a momentary 
tragic sense of being entirely outside of this group of people to 
whom he was so closely related. They were his nearest connections, 
and yet he did not belong to them — never could belong to them ! 
They were of a different species — another world altogether. Lady 
Car could take care of them. She could understand them, and 
know their ways ; but not he. They were all too fine for him, out 
of his range, thinking different thoughts, pretending even (for it 
must surely have been mere pretence) to despise his house, which 
everybody knew was the great house of the district, infinitely grander 
than the castle or any other place in the county. He was deeply 
wounded by this unlooked-for cutting away of the ground from under 
his feet ; but Lady Car was on his side. She could manage them, 
though he could not. Not one of them was equal to her, and it was 
to him that she belonged. He laughed again, but the sound of his 
laugh was not harsh as it had been before. “No, no ; Lady Car 
will take care of you,” he said. 

“ I hope,” said Millefleurs, in his mellifluous tones, “ that it is 
not this intrusion of ours that is sending Mr. Torrance awa>\ I 
know what a nuisance people are coming to luncheon in the middle 
of an occupied day. Send us away. Lady Caroline, or rather send 
me away, who am the stranger. Erskine will take me with him to 
Dalrulzian, and another day I shall return and see the rest of your 
splendors.” 

“ Mr. Torrance has really business,” said Carry ; “ mamma will 
show you the other rooms while I speak to my husband.” She went 
swiftly, softly, after him, as the big figure disappeared in the long 
vista of the great dining-room. After a moment’s pause of em- 
barrassment the rest went on. Carry hurried trembling after her 
tyrant. When they were out of hearing she called him anxiously. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


2II 


Oh, don’t go, Pat ! How do you think I can entertain such a party 
when they know that you are offended, and will not stay ? ” 

“ You will get On better without me,” he said. I can’t stand 
these fellows and their airs. It isn’t any fault of yours. Lady Car. 
Come, I’m pleased with You’ve stood by your own this time, 

I will say that for you. But they’re your kind, they’re not mine. 
Dash the little beggar, what cheek he has ! I’m not used to hear the 
house run down. But never mind, I don’t care a pin ; and it’s not 
your fault this time. Car,” he said, with a laugh, touching her cheek 
with his finger with a touch which was half a blow and half a caress. 
This was about as much tenderness as he was capable of showing. 
Carry followed him to the door, and saw him plunge down the great 
steps and turn in the direction of the stables. Perhaps she was not 
sorry to avoid all farther occasion of offence. She returned slowly 
through the long, vulgar, costly rooms ; a sigh of relief came from 
her overladen heart; but relief in one point made her but more 
painfully conscious of another. In the distance Millefleurs was 
examining closely all the ormolu and finery. As she came in sight 
of the party, walking slowly like the worn creature she was, feeling 
as if all the chances of life were over for her, and she herself incom- 
parably older, more weary and exhausted, than any of them, and 
her existence a worn-out thing apart from the brighter current of 
every day, there remained in her but one flicker of personal anxiety, 
one terror which yet could make everything more bitter. The group 
was much the same as when she left them — Lady Lindores with 
Millefleurs, Edith and John silent behind them, Rintoul in a sort of 
general spectatorship, keeping watch upon the party. Carry touched 
John Erskine’s arm furtively and gave him an entreating look. He 
turned round to her, alarmed. 

Lady Caroline ! can I do anything ? What is it ? ” he said. 

She drew him back into a corner of the great room with its mar- 
ble pillars. She was so breathless that she could hardly speak. 
‘‘ It is nothing — it is only — a question. Are you expecting — people 
— at Dalrulzian ? ” 

Carry’s soft eyes had expanded to twice their size, and looked at 
him out of two caves of anxiety and hollow paleness. She gave him 
her hand unawares, as if asking by that touch more than w^ords 
could say. John was moved to the heart. 

I think not — I hope not — I have no answer. No, no, there 
will be no one,” he said. 

She sunk down into a chair, with a faints mile. You will think 
me foolish — so very foolish — it is nothing to me. But — I am always 
so frightened,” said poor Carry, with the first pretence that occurred 
to her, when there is any dispeace.” 

There will be no dispeace,” said John, “in any case. But I 
am sure — I can be certain — there will be no one there.” 

She smiled upon him again, and waved her hand to him to leave 
her. “ I will follow you directly,” she said. 

What emotions there were in this little group ! Carry sat with 
her hand upon her hearty which fluttered still, getting back her 


212 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


breath. Every remission of active pain seems a positive good. 
She sat still, feeling the relief and ease flow over her like a stream 
of healing to her very feet. She would be saved the one encounter 
which she could not bear ; and then for the moment he was absent, 
and there would be no struggle to keep him in good-humor, or to 
conceal from others his readiness to offend and take offence. Was 
this all the semblance of happiness that remained for Carry ? 
For the moment she was satisfied with it, and took breath, and 
recovered a little courage, and was thankful in that deprivation of 
all things — thankful that no positive pain was to be added to make 
everything worse — and that a brief breathing-time was hers for the 
moment, an hour of rest. 

Edith looked at John as he came back. She had lingered, half 
waiting for him, just as if he had been her partner in a procession. 
In that moment of separation Rintoul allowed himself to go off 
guard. She looked at John, and almost for the first time spoke. 

Carry has been talking to you,” she said, hastily, in an undertone. 

‘‘ Yes, about visitors — people who might be coming to stay with 
me.” 

Is any one coming to stay with you? ” she asked, quickly. 

Nobody,” John replied with fervor, nor shall, at any risk.” 

This all passed in a moment while Rintoul was off guard. She 
looked at him again, wistfully, gratefully, and he, being excited by 
his own feelings, and by sympathy with all this excitement which 
breathed around him in so many currents, was carried beyond all 
prudence, beyond all intention. I will do anything,” he said, ‘‘ to 
please you and serve her, you know. It is nothing to offer. I am 
nobody in comparison with others ; but what I have is all yours, 
and at your service — the little that it is ” 

‘‘ Oh,” said Edith, in a mere breath of rapid, almost inaudible, 
response, ‘‘it is too much! it is too much!” She did not know 
what she said. 

“ Nothing is too much. I am not asking any return. I am not 
presumptuous ; but I am free to give. Nobody can stop me from 
doing that,” said John, not much more clearly. It was all over in a 
moment. The people within a few yards of them scarcely knew 
they had exchanged a word ; even Rintoul did not suspect any com- 
munication that was worth preventing. And next moment they 
separated. John, panting and breathless as if he had been running 
a race, went up to where Millefleurs was discoursing upon some bit 
of upholstery, and stood by in the shelter of this discussion to let 
himself cool down. Edith kept behind in the shelter of her mother. 
And just then Carry came softly out of the door of the great dining- 
room from behind the marble pillars, having recovered herself, and 
called back the smile to her face. In the midst of all these emo- 
tions Millefleurs talked smoothly on. 

“My people,” he said, “ have a place down in Flintshire that is a 
little like this, but not so perfect. My grandfather, or whoever it 
was, lost confidence before it was done, and mixed it up. But here, 
don^t you know, the confidence has been sublime ; no doubt has 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


213 


been allowed to intrude. They say that in Scotland you are so 
absolute — all or nothing, don’t you know ? Whether in furniture or 
anything else, how fine that is ! ” said the little marquis, turning up 
his palms. He looked quite absorbed in his subject and as calm as 
a man in gingerbread. Nevertheless, he was the only person to 
notice that slight passage of conversation sotto voce^ and the breath- 
less condition in which John reached him. What had he been 
doing to put him out of breath ? 

When the house had been inspected, the party went to luncheon 
— a very sumptuous meal, which was prepared in the great dining- 
room, and was far too splendid for an ordinary family party such as 
this was. John, whose excitement had rather increased than dimin- 
ished, and who felt that he had altogether committed himself, with- 
out chance or hope of any improved relations, was not able to sub- 
due himself to the point of sitting down at table. He took his leave 
in spite of the protests of the party. His heart was beating loudly, 
his pulses all clanging in his ears like a steam-engine. He did not 
get the chance even of a glance from Edith, who said good-bye to 
him in a tremulous voice, and did not look up. He saw her placed 
by the side of Millefleurs at table, as he turned away. He had all 
the modesty of genuine feeling — a modesty which is sometimes 
another name for despair. Why should she take any notice of him ? 
He had no right to aspire so high. Nothing to give, as he said, ex- 
cept as a mere offering — a flower laid at her feet — not a gift which 
was capable of a return. He said to himself that, so far as this 
went, there should be no deception in his mind. He would give his 
gift — it was his pleasure to give it — lavishly, with prodigal abun- 
dance ; as a prince should give, expecting no return. In this he 
would have the better of all of them, he said to himself, as he went 
through the great house, where, except in the centre of present en- 
tertainment, all was silent, like a deserted place. He would give 
more liberally, more magnificently, than any duke or duke’s son, 
for he would give all, and look for nothing in return. The feeling 
which accompanied this clan of entire self-devotion and abandon- 
ment of selfish hope gave him something of the same calm of ex- 
haustion which was in Carry’s soul. He seemed to have come to 
something final, something from which there was no recovery. He 
could not sit down at the table with them ; but he could not go away 
any more than he could stay. He went out through the vacant hall, 
where nobody took any notice of his going or coming, and emerged 
upon the wide opening of the plateau, sheltered by fir-trees, upon 
which the house stood dominating the landscape. His was the only 
shadow that crossed the sunshine in front of the huge mass of building 
which was so noiseless outside, so full of life and emotion within. He 
could not go away any more than he could stay. He wandered to 
the fringe of trees which clothed the edge of the steep cliff above the 
river, and sat there on the bank gazing down on the depths below, till 
the sound of voices warned him that the party was moving from the 
dining-room. Then he hastened away to avoid them, taking the less 
frequented road which led by the Scaur. He had passed that danger- 


214 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


ous spot, but the way was still narrow between the bushes when he 
heard the hoofs of Torrance’s great black horse resounding upon the 
path. Pat was returning home after what had evidently been a wild 
gallop, for the powerful animal had his black coat flecked with foam, 
and was chewing the bit in his mouth. Torrance had almost passed 
without perceiving John, but, catching a glimpse of him as he pushed 
along, suddenly drew up, making his horse rear and start. He had an 
air of heat and suppressed passion which corresponded with the foam 
and dishevelled looks of the horse. ‘‘ Halloo ! ” he cried — ‘‘ you Ers- 
kine, have they broken up ? ” and sat swaying his great bulk with 
the impatient movements of the fagged yet fiery beast. John answer- 
ed briefly, and was about to pass on, when Torrance gave him what 
was intended to be a playful poke with the end of his whip. 

When’s your visitor coming ? ” he said, with his harsh laugh. 

‘‘ My visitor ! I expect no visitor,” said John, stepping back with 
anger which he could scarcely restrain. It was all he could do not 
to seize the whip and snatch it out of the other’s hand. But nei- 
ther the narrow path, nor the excited state in which both men were, 
was safe for any scuffle. John restrained himself with an effort. 

Oh yes, you do ! ” cried Torrance ; you let it out once, you 
know — you can’t take me in. But I’m the last man in the world to 
find fault. Let him come ! We’ll have him up to Tinto, and make 
much of him. I told you so before.” 

‘‘You seem to know my arrangements better than I know them 
myself,” John said, white with suppressed fury. “ I have no visitor 
coming. Permit me to know my own affairs.” 

“ Ah, so you’ve forbidden him to come ! Let me tell you, Mr. 
Erskine, that that’s the greatest insult of all. Why shouldn’t he 
come ? he, or any fellow ? Do you think I’m afraid of Lady 
Car ? ” and here his laugh rung into all the echoes. “ Not a bit ; I 
think more of her than that. You’re putting a slight on her when 
you ask any man not to come. Do you hear ? ” 

“ I hear perfectly, and would hear if you spoke lower. There’s 
enough of this, Torrance. I suppose it’s your way, and you don’t 
intend to be specially objectionable — but I am not going to be ques- 
tioned so, nor will I take the lie from any man ! ” cried John, with 
rising passion. There was scarcely room for him to stand in safety 
from the horse’s hoofs, and he was compelled to draw back among 
the bushes as the great brute pranced and capered. 

“ What ! will you fight ? ” cried Torrance, with another laugh ; 
“ that’s all exploded nowadays — that’s a business for Punch, Not 
that I mind ; any way you please. Look here ! here’s a fist that 
would soon master you. But it’s a joke, you know, nowadays ; a 
joke, for Punch,'' 

“ So much the worse,” cried John, hotly. “ It was the only way 
of keeping in order a big bully like you ! ” 

“ Oh, that’s what you call me ! If there was any one to see fair 
play to you (for I’m twice your size) I’d let Blackie go, and give you 
your fill of that ! ” 

John grasped instinctively at the bridle of the big black horse, 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


215 


which seemed charging down upon him, and for a moment the two 
men gazed at each other over the tossing foam-flecked head, big 
eye-balls, and churning mouth. Then John let go the bridle at 
which he had caught, with an exclamation of scorn. 

“Another time for that, if that is what you want,” he said. 

“No,” cried the other, looking back, as the horse darted past — 
“ no, that’s not what I want ; you’re an honest fellow — you shall say 
what you please. We’ll shake hands — ” The horse carrying him 
off lost the rest of his words in the clang of jingling reins and half- 
maddened hoofs. 

John went on very rapidly, excited beyond measure by the en- 
counter. His face was flushed and hot ; his hat, which had been 
knocked off his head, was stained with the damp red soil. He had 
torn his sleeve in the clutch he had made at the bridle. He dashed 
along the narrow road at a wild pace to calm himself down by rapid 
movement. A little way down ho encountered a keeper crossing the 
road, who disappeared into the woods after a curious glance at his 
excited looks and torn coat. Farther on, as he came out of the gate, 
he met, to his great astonishment, old Rolls, plodding along toward 
Tinto in company with another man, who met him at the gate. 
“ Bless me, sir ! what’s the matter ? Ye cannot walk the high-road 
like that ! ” was the first exclamation of old Rolls. 

“ Like what ? Oh, my sleeve I I tore it just now on a — on a — 
catching a runaway horse> The brute was wild ; I thought he would 
have had me down.” There was nothing in thi^ that was absolutely 
untrue, at least nothing that was not permissible to say in the cir- 
cumstances, but the explanation was elaborate, as John felt. “ And 
what are you doing here ? ” he said, peremptorily. “ What do you 
want at Tinto ? ” It seemed almost a personal offence to him to find 
Rolls there. 

“ I have something to say to Tinto, sir, with all respect. My 
father was a tenant of his father — a small tenant, not to call a far- 
mer, something between that and a cotter — and I’m wanting to speak 
a good word for my brother-in-law, John Tamson, that you will 
maybe mind.” 

Upon this the man by Roll’s side, who had been inspecting John 
curiously, at last persuaded himself to touch, not to take off, his hat, 
and to say, “ Ay, sir. I’m John Tamson. I was the first to see ye 
the day ye cam’ first to Dalrulzian. I hae my wife ower by, that’s 
good at her needle. Maybe ye’ll step in and she’ll shue your coat- 
sleeve for you. You canna gang like that all the gate to Dalrulzian. 
There’s no saying who ye may meet.” 

John Erskine had not been awakened before to the strangeness 
of his appearance. He looked down upon his torn coat with a vague 
alarm. It was a start of the black horse while he held its bridle 
which had torn the sleeve out of its socket. While he was looking 
at this with a disturbed air, the lodge-gates were thrown open, and 
the Lindores’s carriage came through. Lady Lindores waved her 
hand to him, then bent forward to look at him with sudden surprise 
and alarm ; but the horses were fresh, and swept along, carrying the 


2I6 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


party out of sight. Millefleurs was alone with the ladies in the car- 
riage — that John noticed without knowing why. 

A minute after, accepting John Thomson’s offer of service, he 
went over with him to his cottage, where the wife immediately got 
her needle and thread, with much lamentation over the gentleman’s 
gude black coat.” Bless me, sir ! it must have been an ill-willy 
beast that made ye give your arm a skreed like that,” she said ; and 
John felt that his hand was unsteady and his nerves quivering. After 
all, it was no such great matter. He could not understand how it 
was that he had been agitated to such an extent by an encounter so 
slight. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

Old Rolls went up the road which led by the Scaur. It was 
shorter than the formal avenue, and less in the way of more impor- 
tant visitors. He was much distressed and “ exercised in his mind ” 
about the agitated appearance of his master — his torn sleeve, and 
clothes stained with the soil. He pondered much on the sight as 
he walked up the road. John was not a man given to quarrelling, 
but he would seem to have been engaged in some conflict or other. 

A runaway horse ! where would he get a runaway horse at Tinto ? ” 
Rolls said to himself ; and Tinto was a man very likely to provoke 
a quarrel.” He hurried on, feeling that he was sure to hear all about 
it, and much concerned at the thought that any one belonging to 
himself should bring discredit on the house in this way. But whether 
it was an excited fancy, or if there was some echo in the air of what 
had passed before, it seemed to Rolls that he heard, as he proceeded 
onward, the sound of voices and conflict. Will he have been but 
one among many ? ” he said within himself. ‘‘ Will they be quar- 
relling on ? and me an unprotected man,” he added, with a prudent 
thought of his own welfare. Then Rolls heard a wonderful concus- 
sion in the air— he could not tell what, and then a solemn stillness. 
What was the meaning of this ? It could have nothing to do with 
John. He turned up the narrow road down which John Erskine had 
once driven his dog-cart, and w'hich Torrance continually rode up 
and down. When he came to the opening of the Scaur, and saw the 
daylight breaking clear from the shadow of the overreaching boughs, 
Rolls stood still for a moment with consternation. Broken branches, 
leaves strewn about, the print of the horse’s hoofs all round the 
open space as if he had been rearing wildly, showed marks of a 
recent struggle ; he thought of his master, and his heart sunk. But 
it was some time before his fears went any farther. Where had the 
other party to the struggle gone ? Just then he thought he heard a 
sound, something like a moan, in the depths below. A terrible fear 
seized the old man. He rushed to the edge of the cliff, and gazed 
over with distracted looks. And then he gave utterance to a cry 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


217 


that rung through the woods ; Wha’s that lying doun there ? ” he 
cried. Something lay in a mass at the bottom of the high bank, 
red and rough, which descended to the water’s edge — something, he 
could scarcely tell what, all heaped together and motionless. 

Rolls had opened his mouth to shout for help with the natural 
impulse of his horror and alarm, but another thought struck him at 
the moment, and kept him silent. Was it his master’s doing? 
With a gasp of misery, he felt that it must be so ; and kneeling 
down distracted on the edge of the Scaur, catching at the roots of 
the trees to support himself, he craned over to see what it was, who 
it was, and whether he could do anything for the sufferer, short of 
calling all the world to witness this terrible sight. But the one ex- 
clamation Rolls gave seemed to thrill the woods. He felt a hand 
touch him as he bent over the edge, and nearly lost his precarious 
footing in his terror. Is’t you, sir, come to look at your handi- 
work ? ” he said, solemnly turning upon the person whom he sup- 
posed to be his master. But it was not his master. It was Lord 
Rintoul, as pale as death, and trembling. “ \^hat — what is it ? ” he 
asked, scarcely able to articulate, pointing vaguely below, but avert- 
ing his eyes as from a sight he dared not look at. Divided between 
the desire of getting help and sparing his master. Rolls drew back 
from the Scaur and returned to his habitual caution. I canna tell 
you what it is, my lord,” he said ; “ it’s somebody that has fallen 
over the Scaur, for all that I can see. But how that came about is 
mair than I can tell. We maun rouse the place,” said the old man, 
‘‘ and get help — if help will do any good.” 

‘‘Help will do no good now,” cried Rintoul, in his excitement. 
“ Nobody could fall from that height and live. Does he move ? — 
look — or the horse ? ” His tongue, too, was parched, and clung to 
the roof of his mouth. 

“ The horse ! then your lordship kens wha it is ? Lord in heaven 
preserve us ! no’ Tinto himsel’ ? ” 

Rintoul’s dry lips formed words two or three times before they 
were audible. “ No one — no one but he — ever rides here.” 

And then the two stood for a horrible monrient and looked at each 
other. Rintoul was entirely unmanned. He seemed to quiver from 
head to foot ; his hat was off, his countenance without a tinge of 
color. “ I have never,” he said, “ seen — such an accident be- 
fore ” 

“Did ye see it?” Rolls cried, anxiously ; and then the young 
man faltered and hesitated. 

“ Heard it. I — meant to say — I heard the horse rearing — and 
then the fall ” 

He looked intently at the old man with his haggard eyes as if to 
ask — what ? Poor old Rolls was trembling too. He thought only of 
his young master — so kind, so blameless-— was his life to be thus as- 
sociated with crime ? 

“ We must go and get help, my lord,” said Rolls, with a heavy 
sigh. “ However it happened, that must be our duty. No doubt 
ye’ll have to give a true account of all ye’ve seen and all ye’ve heard. 

10 


2i8 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


But in the mean time we must cry for help, let them suffer that 
may.’^ 

While this scene was proceeding so near her, Carry, upon the 
other side of the great house, had retired to her room in the weari- 
ness that followed her effort to look cheerful and do the honors of 
her table. She had made that effort very bravely, and though it did 
not even conceal from Millefleurs the position of affairs, still less 
deceive her own family, yet at least it kept up the appearance of 
decorum necessary, and made it easier for the guests to go through 
their part. The meal, indeed, was cheerful enough ; it was far too 
magnificent, Torrance having insisted, in spite of his wife’s better 
taste, on heaping ‘‘ all the luxuries of the season ” upon the table at 
which a duke’s son was to sit. 

The absence of the host was a relief to all parties ; but still it 
required an effort on the side of Carry to overcome the effect of the 
empty chair in front of her, which gave a sense of incongruity to ail 
the grandeur. And this effort cost her a great deal. She had gone 
into her room to rest, and lay on a sofa very quiet in the stillness of 
exhaustion, not doing anything, not saying anything, looking wist- 
fully at the blue sky that was visible through the window, with the 
soft foliage of some birch-trees waving lightly over it, and trying not 
to think. Indeed, she was so weary that it was scarcely necessary 
to try. And what was there to think about ? Nothing could be 
done to deliver her — nothing that she was aware of even to mend her 
position. She was grateful to God that she was to be spared the still 
greater misery of seeing Beaufort, but that was all. Even heaven 
itself seemed to have no help for Carry. If she could have been 
made by some force of unknown agency to love her husband, she 
would still have been an unhappy wife ; but it is to be feared, poor 
soul, that things had come to this pass with her that she did not even 
wish to love her husband, and felt it less degrading to live with him 
under compulsion than to be brought down to the level of his coarser 
nature, .and take pleasure in the chains she wore. Her heart revolted 
at him more and more. In such a terrible case, what help was there 
for her in earth or heaven ? Even had he been reformed — had he 
been made a better man — Carry would not have loved him : she 
shrank from the very suggestion that she might some time do so. 
There was no help for her ; her position could not be bettered any- 
how. She knew this so well that all struggle, except the involuntary 
struggle in her mind, which never could intermit, against many of 
the odious details of the life she had to lead, had died out of her. 
She had given in to the utter hopelessness of her situation. 

Despair is sometimes an opiate, as it is sometimes a frantic and 
maddening poison. There was nothing to be done for her — no use 
in wearying Heaven with prayers, as some of us do. Nothing could 
make her better. She had given in utterly, body and soul, and this 
was all that was to be said. She lay there in this stillness of despair, 
feeling more crushed and helpless than usual after the emotions of 
the morning, but not otherwise disturbed — lying like a man who has 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


219 


-been shattered by an accident, but lulled by some anodyne draught 
— still and almost motionless, letting every sensation be hushed so 
long as nature would permit, her hands folded, her very soul hushed 
and still. She took no note of time in the exhaustion of her being. 
She knew that when her husband returned she would be sent for, and 
would have to re-enter the other world of eternal strife and pain; 
but here she was retired, as in her chapel, in herself — the sole effect- 
ual refuge which she had left. 

The house was very well organized, very silent and orderly in 
general, so that it surprised Lady Caroline a little, in the depth of 
her quiet, to hear a distant noise as of many voices — distinct, though 
not loud — a confusion and far-away Babel of outcries and exclama- 
tions. Nothing could be more unusual ; but she felt no immediate 
alarm, thinking that the absence of her husband and her own with- 
drawal had probably permitted a little outbreak of gayety or gossip 
down-stairs, with which she did not wish to. interfere. She lay still 
accordingly, listening vaguely, without taking much interest in the 
matter. Certainly something out of the way must have happened. 
The sounds had sprung up all at once — a hum of many excited voices, 
with sharp cries of dismay and wailing, breaking in. At last her at- 
tention was attracted. There has been some accident,” she said 
to herself, sitting upright upon her sofa. As she did this she heard 
steps approaching her door. They came with a rush, hurrying along, 
the feet of at least two women, with a heavier step behind them ; 
then paused suddenly, and there ensued a whispering and consulta- 
tion close to her door. Carry was a mother, and her first thought 
was of her children. They are afraid to tell me,” was the thought 
that passed through her mind. She rose and rushed to the door, 
throwing it open. ‘‘What is it? Something has happened,” she 
said ; “ something you are afraid to tell me. Oh, speak, speak ! — 
the children ” 

“ My leddy, it’s none of the children. The children are as Avell 
as could be wished, poor dears,” said her own maid, who had been 
suddenly revealed, standing very close to the door. The woman, 
her cheeks blazing with some sudden shock, eager to speak, yet ter- 
rified, stopped short there with a gasp. The house-keeper, who was 
behind her, pushed her a little forward, supporting her with a hand 
on her waist, whispering confused but audible exhortations. “ Oh, 
take heart — oh, take heart 1 She must be told. The Lord will give 
you strength,” this woman said. The butler stood solemnly behind, 
with a very anxious, serious countenance. To Carry all this scene 
became confused by wild anxiety and terror. “ What is it ? ” she 
said: “my mother? some one at home?” She stretched out her 
hands vaguely toward the messengers of evil, feeling like a victim at 
the block, upon whose neck the executioner’s knife is about to fall. 

“ Oh, my leddy ! far worse — far worse ! ” the woman cried. 

Carry, in the dreadful whirl of her feelings, still paused bewild- 
ered to ask herself what could be worse ? And then there came 
upon her a moment of blindness, when she saw nothing, and the 
walls and the roof seemed to burst asunder, and whirl, and whirl. 


220 


THE LADIES LINDOKES. 


She dropped upon her knees in this awful blank and blackness un- 
awares, and then the haze dispelled, and she saw, coming out of the 
mist, a circle of horror-stricken pale faces, forming a sort of ring 
round her. She could do nothing but gasp out her husband’s name, 
Mr. Torrance ? ” with quivering lips. 

‘‘Oh, my lady! my lady! To see her on her knees, and us 
bringin’ her such awfu’ news ! But the Lord will comfort ye,” cried 
the house -keeper, forgetting the veneration due to her mistress, and 
raising her in her arms. The two women supported her into her 
room, and she sat down again upon the sofa where she had been 
sitting — sitting, was it a year ago ? — in the quiet, thinking that no 
change would ever come to her — that nothing, nothing could alter 
her condition — that all was over and finished for her life. 

And it is to be supposed that they told poor Carry exactly the 
truth. She never knew. When she begged them to leave her alone 
till her mother came, whom they had sent for, she had no distinct 
knowledge of how it was, or what had happened ; but she knew 
that had happened. She fell upon her knees before her bed, and 
buried her head in her hands, shutting out the light. Then she 
seized hold of herself with both her hands to keep herself (as she 
felt) from floating away upon that flood of new life which came 
swelling up all in a moment — swelling into every vein — filling high 
the fountain of existence which had been so feeble and so low. Oh, 
shut out — shut out the light, that nobody might see ! close the doors 
and the shutters in the house of death, and every cranny, that no 
human eye might descry it ! After a while she dropped lower, from 
the bed which supported her to the floor, prostrating herself with 
more than oriental humbleness. Her heart beat wildly, and in her 
brain there seemed to wake a hundred questions, clanging like bells 
in her ears, filling the silence with sound. Her whole being, that 
had been crushed, sprung up like a flower from under a passing 
foot. Was it possible ? was it possible ? She pulled herself down, 
tried by throwing herself upon her face on the carpet, prostrating 
herself, body and soul, to struggle against that secret voiceless mad 
exultation that came upon her against her will. Was he dead ? was 
he dead ? struck down in the middle of his days, that man of iron ? 
Oh, the pity of it ! oh, the horror of it ! She tried to force herself 
to feel this — to keep down, down, that climbing joy in her. God in 
heaven, was it possible ? she who thought nothing could happen to 
her more. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

The drive home would have been very embarrassing to the 
ladies had not Millefleurs been the perfect little gentleman he was. 
Rintoul, though he ought to have been aware that his presence was 
specially desirable, had abandoned his mother and sister ; and the 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


221 




consciousness of the secret, which was no secret, weighed upon 
Lady Lindores so much that it was scarcely possible for her to keep 
up any appearance of the easy indifference which was her proper 
role in the circumstances ; while it silenced Edith altogether. They 
could scarcely look him in the face, knowing both the state of sus- 
pense in which he must be, and the false impression of Edith’s feel- 
ings which he was probably entertaining. Lady Lindores felt cer- 
tain that he was aware she had been informed by her husband 
of what had passed, and feared to look at him lest he might, by 
some glance of intelligence, some look of appeal, call upon her 
sympathy ; while, on the other hand, it was all-essential to keep 
him, if possible, from noticing the pale consciousness of Edith, her 
silence and shrinking discomfort, so unlike her usual frank and 
friendly aspect. 

Millefleurs was far too quick-sighted not to observe this unusual 
embarrassment ; but there was no more amiable young man in 
England, and it was his part for the moment to set them at their 
ease, and soothe the agitation which he could not but perceive. He 
talked of everything but the matter most near his heart with that 
self-sacrifice of true politeness which is perhaps the truest, as it is one 
of the most difficult, manifestations of social heroism. He took pains 
to be amusing, to show himself unconcerned and unexcited ; and, as 
was natural, he got his reward. Lady Lindores was almost piqued 
{though it was so great a relief) that Edith’s suitor should be capable 
of such perfect calm ; and Edith herself, though with a dim percep- 
tion of the heroism in it, could not but console herself with the 
thought that one so completely self-controlled would get over ” his 
disappointment easily. Their conversation at last came to be almost 
a monologue on his part. He discoursed on Tinto and its treasures 
as an easy subject. It has one great quality — it is homogeneous,” 
he said, ‘‘ which is too big a word for a small fellow like me. It is 
all of a piece, don’t you know. To think what lots of money those 
good people must have spent on those great vases, and candelabra, 
and things! We don’t do that sort of thing nowadays. We roam 
over all the world, and pick up our bric-a-brac cheap. But, don’t 
you know, there’s something fine in the other principle — there’s 
a grand sort of spare-no-expense sentiment. I’d like to do it all 
over again for them — to clear away all that finery, which is mere 
Empire^ and get something really good, don’t you know. But, at 
the same time, I respect this sort of thing. There is a thoroughness 
in it. It is going the ‘ whole animal,’ as we say in America. Mr. 
Torrance, who is a fine big man, just like his house, should, if you’ll 
allow me to say so, have carried out the principle a little farther ; 
he should not have gone so entirely into a different genre in his 
wife.” 

‘‘You mean that Carry is — that Carry looks — She is not very 
strong,” said Lady Lindores, with involuntary quickening of atten- 
tion, taking up instantly an attitude of defence. 

“ Dear Lady Lindores,” cried Millefleurs, “ entirely out of keep- 
ing I A different altogether ; a different date ; the finest cthi- 


222 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


cal nineteenth century against a background Empire : preposterous 
altogether. We have no style to speak of in china, or that sort of 
thing — which is odd, considering how much we think of it. Wer 
can’t do anything better than go back to Queen Anne for our furni- 
,Aure. But in respect to women, it’s quite different. We’ve got a 
Victorian type in that, don’t you know. I am aware that it is the 
height of impertinence to make remarks. But considering the family 
friendship to which you have been so good as to admit me, and my 
high appreciation, Lady Caroline, if you will allow me to say so, is a 
different genre. She is out of keeping with the decoration of her 
house.” 

Poor Carry ! ” Lady Lindores said, with a sigh ; and they were 
thankful to Millefleurs when he ran on about the china and the gild- 
ing. It was he, with those keen little beady eyes of his, who saw 
JohnErskine disappearing among the trees. He had possession of 
the stage, as it were, during all that long way home, which to the 
ladies seemed about twice as long as it had ever been before. 

Lord Lindores had not accompanied the party. He did not 
come in contact with his son-in-law, indeed, anymore than he could 
help. Though he had taken up Tinto so warmly at first, it was 
not to be supposed that a man of his refinement could have any 
pleasure in such society ; and though he made a point of keeping 
on scrupulously good terms with Torrance, even when the latter set 
himself in opposition to the earl’s plans, yet he kept away from the 
spectacle afforded by his daughter and her husband in their own house. 
If Lord Lindores’s private sentiments could have been divined, it 
would brobably have been apparent that in his soul he thought it 
hard upon poor Caroline to have married such a man. There were 
reasons which made it very desirable, even necessary ; but it was a 
pity, he felt. In the present case, however, there was nothing but 
congratulations to be thought of. Edith was, there could be no 
doubt, a thoroughly fortunate young woman. Nobody could say a 
word against Millefleurs. He had shown himself eccentric, but only 
in a way quite approved by his generation ; and there was no doubt 
that a w’ife, at once pretty and charming, and sufficiently clever, was 
all that he wanted to settle him. Not Carry — Carry was too intel- 
lectual, too superior altogether, for the democratic little marquis ; 
but Edith had just the combination of simplicity and mental compe- 
tence that would suit his position. It was the most admirable ar- 
rangement that could have been devised. Lord Lindores sat in his 
library with much satisfaction of mind, and thought over all the new 
combinations. He had no doubt of the duke’s content with the 
alliance — and through the duke the whole ministry would be affected. 
It would be felt that to keep a man of Lord Lindores’s abilities in the 
hopeless position of a mere Scotch lord, would be a waste prejudicial 
to the country. With Millefleurs for his son-in-law, a mere repre- 
sentative seat in the House of Lords no longer seemed worth his 
while — an English peerage would be his, as a matter of course. He 
had said a few words to Rintoul on the subject before the party left 
the house. There could be no harm in drawing the bonds tighter 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


223 


which were to produce so admirable an effect. There’s Lady 
Reseda, a very charming girl,” he said. ‘Mt is time you were 
thinking of marrying, Rintoul. I don’t know any girl that has been 
more admired.” 

One doesn’t care for one’s wife having been admired,” said 
Rintoul, somewhat sulkily. One would rather admire her one’s 
self.” 

His father looked at him with some severity, and Rintoul colored 
in spite of himself. Perhaps this was one reason why his temper 
was so unpleasant at Tinto, and moved him to fling off from the 
party in the midst of their inspection of the place, and declare that 
he would walk home. In his present temper, perhaps he would not 
have been much help to them, whereas Millefleurs managed it all 
capitally, being left to himself. 

They got home only in time to dress for dinner, at which meal 
Rintoul did not appear. It was unlike him to stay behind and dine 
at Tinto ; but still there was nothing impossible in it, and the minds 
of the four people who sat down together at table were all too much 
absorbed by the immediate question before them to have much time 
to consider Rintoul. Lady Lindores’s entire attention \vas given to 
Edith, who, very pale and with a thrill of nervous trembling in her, 
w'hich her mother noted without quite understanding, neither ate nor 
talked, but pretended, at least, to do the first — veiling herself from 
the eyes of her lover behind the flowers wLich ornamented the cen- 
tre of the table. These flowers, it must be allowed, are often a nuis- 
ance, and serious hindering of conversation. On this occasion they 
performed a charitable office. There was one plume of ferns in par- 
ticular which did Edith the most excellent service. She had been 
commanded to repair to the library when she left the table, to await 
her father there. And if she trembled, it was with the tension of 
high-strung nerves, not the hesitation of weakness, as her mother 
thought. 

Lord Lindores, for his part, watched her too, with an uneasy in- 
stinct. He would not allows himself to imagine that she could have 
the folly to hesitate even ; and yet there was a sensation in him, an 
unwilling conviction that, if Edith resisted, she w ould be, though she 
was not so clever, a different kind of antagonist from poor Carry. 
There arose in him, as he glanced at her now and then, an impulse 
of war. He had no idea that she would really attempt to resist him ; 
but if she did ! He, too, had little to say during dinner. He utter- 
ed a formal sentence now and then in discharge of his duty as host, 
but that was all ; and by intervals, when he had leisure to think of it, 
he w^as angry with his son. 

Rintoul ought to have been there to take the weight of the con- 
versation upon him ; Rintoul ought to have had more discrimination 
than to choose this day of all others for absenting himself. His mother 
w'as of the same opinion. She, too, was almost wroth with Rintoul 
* — to leave her unsupported without any aid at such a crisis was un- 
pardonable. But Millefleurs was quite equal to the emergency. He 
took everything upon himself. The servants, closest of all critics, 


224 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


did not even guess that anything was going on in which the wee 
English lord ’’ was involved. They made their own remarks upon 
Lady Edith’s pallor and silence, and the preoccupation of Lady Lin- 
dores. But Millefleurs was the life of the company ; and not even 
the butler, who had se^n a great deal in his day, and divined most 
things, associated him with the present evident crisis. It was amaz- 
ing how much he found to say, and how naturally he said it, as if 
nothing particular was going on, and no issues of any importance to 
to him, at least, were involved. 

When the ladies left the table, Lady Lindores would have detained 
her daughter with her. Come into the drawing-room with me 
first, Edith. Your father cannot be ready for you for some minutes 
at least.” 

No, mamma. I must keep all my wits about me,” Edith said, 
with a faint smile. They were in the corridor, where it was always 
cold, and she shivered a little in spite of herself. 

You are chilly, Edith — you are not well, dear. I will go my- 
self and tell your father you are not able to talk to him to-night.” 

Edith shook her head without saying anything. She waved her 
hand to her mother as she turned away in the direction of the library. 
Lady Lindores stood looking after her with that strange struggle in 
her mind which only parents know — the impulse to take their children 
in their arms as of old, and bear their burdens for them, contradicted 
by the consciousness that this cannot be done— that the time has 
come when these beloved children can no longer be carried over 
their difficulties, but must stand for themselves, with not another to 
interfere between them and fate. Oh, the surprise of this penetrat- 
ing the heart ! Lady Lindores went back to the drawing-room, with 
the wonder and pain of it piercing her like an arrow, to sit down and 
wait, while Edith — little Edith — bore her trial alone. It was intol- 
erable, yet it had to be endured. She stood aside and let her child 
do what had to be done ; any trial in the world would have been 
easier. The pang was complicated in every way. There seemed 
even an ingratitude in it, as if her child preferred to stand alone ; 
and yet it was all inevitalDle — a thing that must be. She waited, the 
air all rustling round her, with expectation and suspense. What would 
the girl find to say ? Caroline had wept and struggled, but she had 
yielded. Edith would not weep, she would stand fast like a little 
rock ; but, after all, what was there to object to ? Millefleurs was 
very different from Torrance of Tinto. Why should he not please 
the girl’s fancy as well as another ? He had so much in him to please 
‘any girl’s fancy ; he was clever and amusing, and romantic, even, 
in his way. If Edith would but content herself with him! True, he 
was little ; but what did that matter, after all ? He would no doubt 
make the best of husbands — unquestionably he would make the best 
of sons-in-law. And then, your mind must be impartial, indeed, if 
you are impervious to the attractions of an English dukedom. Who 
could be indifferent to that ? 

With a little laugh of nervous pleasure Lady Lindores permitted 
herself to think how amusing it would be to, see her little girl take 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


225 


precedence of her. Alas ! things were far from being so advanced 
as that ; but yet she could not help more or less being on the side 
of ambition this time. The ambition that fixed upon Torrance of 
Tinto was poor enough, and shamed her to think of it ; but the Mar- 
quis Millefleurs, the Duke of Lavender, that was an ambition which 
had some justification. Not love him ? Why should not she love 
him ? Lady Lindores even went so far as to ask herself with some 
heat. He was delightful ; everything but his stature was in his favor. 
He' was excellent ; his very failings leaned to virtue’s side. 

While, however, her mother was thus discussing the question 
with so strong a bias in favor of Millefleurs, Edith was standing in 
her father’s library waiting for him, not entering into any argument 
with herself at all. She would not sit down, which would have 
seemed somehow like yielding, but stood with her hand upon the 
mantel-piece, her heart beating loudly. She had not summoned her- 
self to the bar of her own Judgment, or asked with any authority how 
it was that she neither could nor would for a moment take the quali- 
ties of Millefleurs into consideration. The question had been given 
against him even before it was put — but Edith would not allow her- 
self to consider why. No doubt she knew why ; but there are occa- 
sions in which we do not wish to see what is going on in our spirits, 
just as there are occasions when we turn out all the corners and sum- 
mon everything to the light. She heard the door of the dining-room 
open, then the voices of the gentlemen as they came out, with a sud- 
den tightening of her breath. What if little Millefleurs himself were 
coming instead of her father ? 

This idea brought a gleam of a smile over her face ; but that was 
driven away as she heard the heavy, familiar step approaching. 
Lord Lindores, as he came along the corridor, had time enough to 
say to himself that perhaps he had been foolish. Why had he de- 
termined upon speaking to Edith before he allowed her lover to speak 
to her ? Perhaps it was a mistake. He had his reasons, but it 
might be that they were not so powerful as he had supposed, and 
that he would have done better not to have interfered. However, it 
was now too late to think of this. He went into the library, shutting 
the door deliberately, asking himself why he should have any trouble 
about the matter, and what Edith could feel but happiness in having 
such a proposal made to her ; but when he turned round and met 
Edith’s eye his delusions fled. Surely there was nobody so unfortu- 
nate as he was in his children. Instead or their perceiving what was 
for their own interest, he was met by a perpetual struggle and attempt 
to put him in the wrong. It was inconceivable. Was it not their 
interest solely which moved him ? and yet they would resist as if he 
were plotting nothing but Wrong. But though these thoughts passed 
through his mind with a sweep of bitterness, he would not indulge 
them. He went up to Edith with great urbanity, putting down all 
feelings less pleasant. I am glad to find you here,” he said. 

Yes, papa ; you wanted me, my mother told me.” 

I wanted you. As I came along the corridor I began to ask 
myself whether I was doing right in wanting you. Perhaps Bought 
10* 


226 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


to have let you hear what I am going to say from — some one who 
might have made it more agreeable, Edith/’ 

Oh, let me hear what you want, please, from yourself, papa.” 

He took her hand, which trembled in his hold, and looked down 
on her with fatherly eyes — eyes which were tender, and admiring, 
and kind. Could any one doubt that he wished her well ? He wished 
her everything that was best in the world — wealth and title, and rank 
and importance — everything we desire for our children. He was not 
a bad man, desiring the sacrifice of his child’s happiness. If he had, 
perhaps, made something of a mistake about Carry, there was no 
mistake here. 

Edith, I want to speak to you about Lord Millefleurs. He 
came here, I believe, on your own invitation ” 

At this Edith startled with sudden alarm, and her hand trembled 
still more in her father’s easy clasp. She had an indefinite pang of 
fear, she could not tell why. 

He has been here now for some time. I was glad to ratify 
your invitation by mine — nothing could have pleased me better. I 
like his family. His father and I have always thought alike, and the 
duchess is a most excellent woman. That your mother and you 
should have taken him up so much was very good for him, and quite 
a pleasure to me.” 

I don’t know why you should say we took him up very much,” 
said Edith, with some confusion. ‘‘ He took us up — he came to us 
wherever we were. And then he was Robin’s friend. It was quite 
natural ; there was nothing — ” She paused, with a painful eager- 
ness to excuse herself, and yet there was nothing to excuse. This 
changed the position for the moment, and made everything much 
more easy for the indulgent father, who was so ready to approve 
what his child herself had done. 

It is perfectly natural, my dear — everything about it is natural. 
Lord Millefleurs has been quite consistent since he first saw you. He 
has explained himself to me in the most honorable way. He wishes 
— to marry you, Edith. I don’t suppose this is any surprise to 
you ? ” 

Edith was crimson ; her temples throbbed with the rush of the 
blood, which seemed to rise like an angry sea. ‘Mf it is so, he has 
had opportunity enough to tell me so. Why has he taken so un- 
fair an advantage ? Why — why has he gone to you ? ” 

He has behaved like a honorable man. I see no unfair advan- 
tage. He has done what was right — what was respectful at once to 
you and to me.” 

‘‘Oh, papa — honorable! respectful!” cried the girl. “What 
does that mean in our position ? Could he have been anything but 
honorable — to me ? You forget what kind of expressions you are 
using. If he had that to say, it is to me he ought to have come. He 
has taken an unkind — a cruel advantage,” Edith cried. 

“ This is ridiculous,” said her father. “ He has done what it is 
seemly and right to do — in his position and yours. If he had gone 
to you, as you say, like a village lad to his lass, what advantage 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


227 


could there liave been in that ? As it is, you have your father’s full 
sanction, which, I hope, you reckon for something, Edith.” 

P'ather,” she said, somewhat breathless, collecting herself with 
a little effort ; the wave of hot color died off from her face ; she grew 
paler and paler as she stood firmly opposite to him, holding fast 
with her hand the cool marble of the mantel-piece, which felt like a 
support — Father, if he had come to me, as he ought to have done, 
this is what would have happened — I should have told him at once 
that it was a mistake, and he would have left us quietly without 
giving you any trouble. How much better that would have been in 
every way ! ” 

1 don’t understand you, Edith. A mistake? I don’t see that 
there is any mistake.” 

‘‘ That is very likely, papa,” she said, with returning spirit, 
since it is not you that are concerned. But I see it. I should have 
told him quietly, and there would have been an end of the matter, 
if he had not been so formal, so absurd, so old-fashioned as to ap- 
peal to you.” 

This counterblast took away Lord Lindores’s breath. He made 
a pause for a moment and stared at her ; he had never been so 
treated before. Old-fashioned ! ” he repeated, almost with be- 
wilderment. There is enough of this, Edith. If you wish to take 
up the role of the advanced young lady, I must tell you it is not 
either suitable or becoming. Millefleurs will, no doubt, find an 
early opportunity of making his own explanations to you, and of 
course, if you choose to keep him in hot water, it is, I suppose, your 
right. But don’t carry it too far. The connection is one that is per- 
fectly desirable — excellent in every point of view.” 

‘Mt is a pity, since you think so, that it is impossible,” she said, 
in a low tone. 

Lord Lindores looked at her, fixing her with his eye. He felt 
now that he had known it all along — tha.t he had felt sure there w'as 
a struggle before him, and that his only policy was to convince her 
that he was determined from the very first. There is nothing im- 
possible,” he said, except disobedience and folly. I don’t expect 
V:hese from you. Indeed, I can’t imagine what motive you can have, 
except a momentary perverseness, to answer me so. No more of it, 
Edith. By to-morrow, at least, everything will be settled between 
you and your lover ” 

Oh, papa, listen ! don’t mistake me,” she cried. He is not 
my lover. How can you — how can you use such a word ? He can 
never be anything to me. If he had spoken to me, I could have 
settled it all in a moment. As it is you he has spoken to, why give 
him a double mortification ? It will be so easy for you to tell him — 
to tell him he can never be anything to me.” 

“ Edith, take care what you are saying ! Fie is to be your hus- 
band. I am not a man easily balked in my own family.” 

‘‘We all know that,” she cried, with bitterness ; “ but I am not 
Carry, papa.” 

He made a step nearer to her, with a threatening aspect. “ What 


228 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


do you mean by that? Carry! What has Carry to do with it? 
You have a chance poor Carry never had — high rank, wealth — every- 
thing that is desirable ; and a man to whom the most fantastic could 
not in any way object.’' 

There is scarcely any situation in the world into which a gleam 
of ridicule will not fall. It takes us with the tear in our eye — it took 
Edith in the nervous excitement of this struggle, the most trying 
moment which personally she had ever gone through. Millefleurs, 
with his little plump person, his round eyes, his soft lisp of a voice, 
seemed to come suddenly before her, and at the height of this half- 
tragical contention she laughed. It was excitement and high pres- 
sure as well as that sudden flash of perverse imagination. She 
could have cried next moment — but laugh she did, in spite of her- 
self. The sound drove Lord Lindores to fury. ‘‘ This is beyond 
bearing ! ” he cried. It seems that I have been deceived in you 
altogether. If you cannot feel the honor that has been done you — 
the compliment that has been paid you — you are unworthy of it, 
and of the trouble I have taken.” 

‘^I suppose,” said Edith, irritated too, these are the right 
words for a girl to use to any man who is so good as to think she 
would suit him. I was wrong to laugh, but are not you going too 
far, papa ? I am likely to get more annoyance by it than honor. 
Please, please let me take my own way.” 

She had broken down a little when she said this, in natural reac- 
tion, and gave him a pitiful look, with a little quiver of her lip. 
After such a laugh it is so likely that a girl will cry, as after a sudden 
self-assertion it is to be expected that she will be subdued and hum- 
bled. She looked at him with a childlike appeal for pity ; and he 
thought that now he had her securely in his hands. 

“ My love,” he said, /^ you will regret it all your life if I yield to 
you now. It is your happiness I am thinking of. I cannot let a 
giiTs folly spoil your career. Besides, it is of the highest importance 
to everybody — to Rintoul, even to myself--that you should marry 
Millefleurs ” 

I am very sorry, papa ; but I shall never — marry Lord Mille- 
fleurs ” 

Folly ! I shall not allow you to trifle with him, Edith — or with 
me. You have given him the most evident encouragement — led him 
on in every way, invited him here ” 

Edith grew pale to her very lips. Papa, have pity on me ! I 
never did so ; it was all nothing — the way one talks without meaning 
it — without thinking ” 

That is all very well on our side, but on the other — I tell you, 
I will permit no trifling, Edith. He has a right to a favorable answer, 
and he must have it ! ” s 

Never ! never! If I have been wrong, I will ask his pardon ” 

You will accept him in the first place,” said Lord Lindores, 
sternly. 

I will never accept him ! ” Edith said. 

Her father, wound up to that pitch of excitement at which a man 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


229 


is no longer master of what he says, took a few steps about the 
room. ‘‘ Your sister said the same,” he cried, with a short laugh, 
“ and you know what came of that ! ” 

It was an admission he had never intended to make — for he did 
not always feel proud of his handiwork— but it was done now, and 
could not be recalled. Edith withdrew, even from the mantel-piece 
on which she had leaned. She clasped her hands together, support- 
ing herself. I am not Carry,” she said, in a low tone, facing him 
resolutely as he turned back in some alarm at what he had been 
betrayed into saying. He had become excited, and she calm. He 
almost threatened her with his hand in the heat of the moment. 

You will obey your parents,” he cried. 

‘‘ No, papa,” she said. ^ 

He remembered so well, too well, what Carry had done under 
the same circumstances — she had wept and pleaded. When he 
demanded obedience from her she had not dared to stand against 
him. He recollected (too well for his own comfort, sometimes) 
every one of those scenes which brought her to submission. But 
Edith did not weep, and was not shaken by that final appeal. She 
was very pale, and looked unusually slight and young and childlike 
standing there with her hands clasped, her steadfast eyes raised, 
her little mouth close — so slight a thing — not stately, like Carry. 
He was confounded by a resistance which he had not foreseen, 
which he could not have believed in, and stood staring at her, not 
knowing what next to say and do. Matters were at this point when 
all at once there arose a something outside the room which not even 
the solid closed doors and heavy curtains could keep out — not posi- 
tive noise or tumult, but something indescribable — a sensation as 
of some j'n’cnown, dread event. Ordinarily all was still in the well- 
ordered house, and my lord’s tranquillity as completely assured as 
if he had been Prime-minister. But this was something that was 
beyond decorum. Then the door was hastily opened, and Rintoul, 
ghastly, his face gray rather than pale, his hair hanging wildly on 
his forehead, came into the room. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

This extraordinary interruption put a stop at once to the struggle 
between the father and daughter. They both came to a sudden 
pause, not only in their conversation, but in their thoughts, which 
were suspended instantly by the breaking in of something more 
urgent. What is it? What has happened ? ” they both cried in 
a breath ; and Edith, after a moment, added, ‘‘Carry — there is 
something wrong with Carry,” scarcely aware what she said. 

Rintoul came to the table, on \yhich stood a crystal jug of water. 
He filled himself out a large glass and drank it. He was in a tremor 


230 


THE LADIES LIN DO RES, 


which he attempted to conceal from them, though with no success. 
Then he said, There is nothing the matter with Carry — but a 
dreadful accident has happened” — and stopped, his mouth being 
parched, his very articulation difficult. 

‘‘ What is it ? what is it ? The children ” 

Rintoul turned his face away from Edith, and directed himself 
toward his father. He made a great effort over himself, as if what 
he had to say was almost beyond his powers. Then he said, with a 
strange hoarseness of voice, “ Torrance — has been killed ! ” 
Torrance — killed ! Good God ! Rintoul.” 

It is so. Instantaneous, they say. He cannot have suffered 
much, thank God ! ” 

Rintoul was not emotional or^used to show very much feeling, 
but the lines of his face were drawn and his lip quivered as he spoke. 

Killed! But how did it happen? where? Was it accident, 
or — For heaven’s sake tell us all 1 ” cried his father. Edith stood 
by struck dumb, yet with a host of sudden rising thoughts, or rather 
images, in her breast. It was to her sister that her mind suddenly 
reverted, with a perception of everything involved so clear and vivid 
that her very spirit was confused by the distinctness of her sight. 

‘‘Accident,” said Rintoul, almost with a stammer, stumbling on 
the word. “ He must have been riding home by the Greenlaws 
road, which was his favorite way. He and his horse were found at 
the foot of the Scaur. The brute must have reared and lost its 
footing. The ground was soft with the rain. That’s all that any 
one knows.” 

“ And he is dead ? Good God ! ” 

A shiver came over Rintoul. Who would have thought he had 
so much feeling? and concerning Torrance, whom he had never been 
able to endure. “ It’s dreadful,” he said, in a low tone, “ but it’s 
true. One moment never to be recalled, and that big fellow with 
all his strength — O Lord, it’s terrible to think of it ! It has taken 
all the strength out of me.” 

Edith hurried to him, trembling herself, to clasp his arm in hers 
and soothe her brother. She was almost too much excited and 
agitated to be aware that he repulsed her, though unconsciously, but 
this increased the general impression of pain and horror on her 
mind. There was so strong a thrill of agitation in him that he could 
not bear to be touched or even looked at. He put her away, and 
threw himself down into the nearest chair. A hundred questions 
were on the lips of both ; but he looked as if he had said all that 
was possible — as if he had no power to add anything. Lord Lin- 
dores, after the first pause of horror, of course pursued his inquiries, 
and they gathered certain details as to the way of finding “ the body,” 
and the manner in which horse and man seemed to have fallen. But 
Rintoul evidently had been too much impressed by the sight to be 
able to dwell on the subject. He wiped the perspiration from his 
forehead, and took again large draughts of water as he brought forth 
sentence after sentence. “ Get me some wine, brandy, or some- 
thing — I am done ! ” he cried ; but when his father rung the bell 


'THE LADIES LINDORES. 


231 


Rintoul recoiled. Let Edith fetch it ; don’t let us have any prying 
servants about here.” 

There is no reason why we should be afraid of prying ser- 
vants,” said Lord Lindores, with surprise and disapproval. ‘‘ It is 
not a matter to be concealed. I suppose there is nothing to con- 
ceal ? ” 

‘‘ Oh no, no ! ” said Rintoul, with a groan — nothing to be con- 
cealed ; you can’t conceal a dead man and he shuddered, but 
added directly, raising himself to meet his father’s eye, it was 
accident — nothing but accident — everybody had warned him. I 
said myself something was sure to happen sooner or later at the 
Scaur.” 

Edith, who had flown to bring him the wine he asked for, here 
came back with it, having sent away the officious butler, anxious to 
hear all about it, who hovered near the door. Her brother took the 
decanter from her hand without a word of thanks, and poured out 
the wine lavishly, but with a shaking hand, into the glass from which 
he had been drinking water. It brought a little color back into his 
cheeks. To Edith the emotion he showed was a new revela- 
tion. She had never expected from Rintoul so much tender- 
ness of feeling. But Lord Lindores went on with his questions. 

Something sure to happen ? Yes — to children or people in- 
capable of taking care of themselves ; but Torrance, who knew 
it all like his own hand ! had he — been drinking, poor fellow ? ” 

‘‘Not that I know of ; but how can I tell ? Nobody knows.” 

“ Some one must have seen him before the accident happened. 
There must be some one who can tell. Of course everything must 
be investigated. Where had he been ? Why was he not with you, 
when you went by appointment to see the place ? It was surely very 
extraordinary ” 

“ He was with us at first,” said Rintoul, “ but he took 
offence at some of Millefleurs’s criticisms ; and then John Ers- 
kine ” 

“ What had John Erskine to do with it ? ” 

“ They had some words. I can’t remember : sometliing passed. 
Erskine left early too. Now that I think of it,” said Rintoul, suddenly, 
“ Erskine must have gone that way, and perhaps — But no, no ! 
I mistake — ^;hey did not meet.” 

“They had no words,” said Edith, eagerly ; “there was no 
quarrel, if that is what you mean. Mr. Torrance was annoyed be- 
cause Lord Millefleurs — But Mr. Erskine had nothing to do with 
it,” she added, her color rising. Lord Lindores paced up and 
down the room, stopping at every turn to ask another question. 
Rintoul sat leaning his head upon his hand, his face concealed by it ; 
while Edith, to whom this reference had given animation, stood be- 
tween them, her senses quickened, her mind alert. But they were 
both too deeply occupied to notice the change in her which was made 
by the mention of this name. 

“ Of course there must be a thorough investigation ir)to all the 
circumstances,” Lord Lindores said. 


232 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


Who can do that ? I thou^t there were no coroners in Scot- 
land ? said Rintoul, rousing himself. was thinking, indeed, 

what a good thing for poor Carry to be spared this. Besides, what 
can investigation do ? He went off from among us excited. Very 
likely, poor fellow, he had been drinking. He road off in haste, 
thundering down that dangerous road, as was his custom. Every- 
body knows it was his custom. It was his way of blowing off steam. 
Coming back the road was soft with the rain, and he still excited 
and in a nervous state. He pushed Black Jess a step too close. She 
reared, and — I don’t know what you can find out more by any 
investigation.” Rintoul wiped his forehead again and poured him- 
self out more wine. 

That may be, but there must be an investigation all the same,” 
said Lord Lindores. A man of importance like poor Torrance 
does not disappear like this in a moment without any notice being 
taken of it. If he had been a ploughman, perhaps ” 

Here the door was opened hastily, and Lady Lindores hurried in. 
‘‘What is this ” she cried; “what is this I hear? the servants 
are full of it. Something about Torrance and a bad accident. 
What does it mean ? ” 

Edith ran to her mother, taking her by the arm, with the instinct 
of supporting her against the shock and Lord Lindores gave her the 
information, not without that almost pleasure in recounting even the 
. most terrible news, which is the instinctive sentiment of those whose 
hearts are not deeply concerned. Lady Lindores heard it with hor- 
ror — with the instant and keen self-question as to whether she had 
done justice to this man, of whom no one now could ask pardon, 
whose wrongs, if he had any, could never be remedied — which, in a 
generous mind, is the first result of such a tragedy. Out of keen 
excitement and horror she shed a few tears, the first that in this 
house at least had been expended on the dead man. A pang of won- 
dering pity was in her heart. The sight of this softer feeling stilled 
the others. She arrested every other sentiment in a natural pause 
of terrified compassion. She, who had never called him by it in his 
life, suddenly found his Christian name come to her lips : “ Oh, 
poor Pat ! poor Pat ! like that — in a moment — with his home close 
hy that he was so proud of, and all his good things — summoned in a 
moment. O God, have mercy upon him ! ” she cried. 

“ It is too late for that,” said Lord Lindores, gravely, for the 
moment ashamed of all other questions. “ Short as the time is, and 
dreadful as it is to think of it, his account must be made by this 
time. It is a terrible lesson to us all ” 

“ O God, have mercy upon him ! I cannot think it is ever too late 
for that,” cried Lady Lindores through her tears. And there was a 
pause. She did not, so far as we know, entertain any heterodox 
ideas about the after-state ; but nature spoke in her, which is strong- 
er than creeds. And they were all sclent, ashamed to have. thought 
of anything else than this. Rintoul still sat with his head hid in his 
hands. He had not looked at his mother. He did not say anything 
to help out the narrative which his father, of course, had given min- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


233 


utely. He had made a great effort to get over his personal agitation 
and the tremor of his nerves, but he was not used to such violent emo- 
tions, and it was hard to get them under control. 

Then Lady Lindores rose from the chair upon which she had 
sunk in the first shock. I must go to Carry at once,” she said. 
‘‘Poor Carry! how must she be feeling? In a moment — without 
'time for a word ” 

Now at this there was a slight movement on the part of the two 
men — even in Rintoul, though he was so much overcome. They 
thought it was the usual feminine hypocrisy. Carry had never pre- 
tended to be a fond or loving wife. The shock was great, but it 
brought her deliverance. A touch of indignation and of wonder at 
what they considered that incomprehensible female nature, which 
one moment brought them back by sheer natural tenderness to a 
loftier state of feeling, and the next disgusted them with mere con- 
ventionalism and make-believe, stirred in their minds. They durst 
not say anything, for of course it was needful to the world to keep 
up this fiction, and take it for granted that Carry was heart-broken ; 
but in their hearts they despised the false sentiment, as they thought 
it. Nobody understood that divine compunction in Lady Lindores’s 
heart — that terrible and aching pity for the unworthy on her own 
part — that sense of awful severance from a human creature with 
whom there had been nothing in common, with whom there could be 
no hope of reunion, which, she felt, must be in her daughter’s mind. 
God help poor Carry ! What could she be but glad to be free ? 
Her mother’s heart bled for her in this awful satisfaction and misery. 
Meanwhile her husband rung the bell, and ordered the carriage for 
her, with a sensation not quite unlike contempt, though he was 
pleased, too, that she should be able to keep up the natural super- 
stitions, and go through all traditional formalities so well. He made 
a pause, however, when he found Edith hastily preparing to go too. 

“ There is Lord Millefleurs to be thought of. What am I to do,” 
he said, “ with Millefleurs ? ” 

At such a moment surely everything of the kind must be sus- 
pended,” said Lady Lindores. “You cannot think that Edith 
could — -go on with this — while her sister ” 

Millefleurs himself made his appearance on the stairs while she 
was speaking. It was a curious scene. The great hall-door was 
open, the night wind blowing in, making the light waver, and pene- 
trating all the excited group with cold. Lady Lindores, wrapped in a 
great cloak which covered her from head to foot, stood below looking 
up, while Edith paused on the lower steps in the act of tying a white 
shawl about her head. The servants, still more excited, stood about, 
all anxious to help, by way of seeing everything that was going on. 
Rintoul stood in the door- way of the library, entirely in shadow — a 
dark figure contrasting with the others in the light. To these actors 
in the drama came forth Millefleurs in his exact evening costume, 
like a hero of genteel comedy coming in at the height of the im~ 
broj^lio. “I need not say how shocked and distressed I am,” he 
said, from his platform on the landing. “ I would go away at once. 


234 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


iDut that would not help you. Never think of me ; but I feel sure 
you would not do me the injustice to think of me in presence of such 
a catastrophe.” 

Lady Lindores waved her hand to him as she hurried out, but 
he overtook Edith on the stairs. It was impossible that he should 
not feel that she knew all about it by this time ; and after all, though 
he was so humble-minded, Millefleurs was aware that the heir of a 
great duke is not usually kept in suspense. Lady Edith,” he 
said, in an undertone, should I go away ? I will do what you think 
best.” 

He had faded entirely out of her mind in the excitement of this 
new event. Lord Millefleurs — Oh, I cannot tell,” she said ; ‘Mt 

will be painful for you in the midst of this horror and mourning ” 

You cannot think that is what I mean,” he said, anxiously. 

If I could be of any use ; a cooler person is sometimes of use, don’t 
you know — one that can sympathize and — without being overwhelmed 
with — feeling.” 

‘‘ We shall not be overwhelmed. Oh, you have seen, you know, 
that it is not so much grief as — ■ It is Carry we all must think of — 
not— poor Mr. Torrance. I am sorry — I am sorry with all my heart 

— but he did not belong to us, except by ” 

Marriage — that is not much of a tie, is it? ” said little Mille- 
fleurs, looking at her with a mixture of half-comic ruefulness and 
serious anxiety. “ But this is not a moment to trouble you. Lady 
Edith, do you think I may stay ? ” 

At this moment her mother called her from the door, and Edith 
ran hastily down the steps. She scarcely knew whether she had 
said anything, or what she had said. It was only “ Oh,” the English 
ejaculation which fits into every crisis ; but it was not No,” Lord 
Millefleurs said to himself, and he hastened after her to close the 
carriage-door, and bid Lady Lindores good-night. As the carriage 
drove off he turned and found himself in face of Lord Lindores, 
who had a somewhat anxious look. I have been asking if I should 
go or stay,” he said. I know your hospitality, even when you are 
in trouble ” 

There is no trouble in having you in the house, even in the 
midst of this calamity ; but what did they say to you ? ” asked Lord 
Lindores. 

Nothing, I think ; but I will stay if you will let me. Lord Lin- 
dores, till we can see. And may I hear the details of the accident? 
if it was an accident.” 

‘‘You think there is something more m it?” cried Lord Lin- 
dores, quickly. 

“ No ; how can I tell ? I should like to hear everything. Some- 
times a looker-on, who is not so much interested, sees more of the 
game, don’t you know.” 

“ It is a tragic game,” said Lord Lindores, shaking his head ; 
“ but there is no agrarian crime here — no landlord-killing, no re- 
venge. Poor Torrance had not an enemy, so far as I know.” 

All this time Rintoul stood motionless in the door-way, concealed 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


235 


by the shadow ; but here he seemed piqued to speak. He had 
plenty of enemies,” he said, hastily. A man of such a temper 
and manners, how could he help having enemies ? ” 

De mortuis nil nisi bonum,” said his father ; say no harm of 
the dead ” 

That is all very well ; but it is of more importance to do no 
^justice to the living,” said Rintoul, with a sort of sullen solemnity ; 
and he suddenly gave place to the- others and went off in the direc- 
tion of his own den, a little room in which he smoked and kept his 
treasures. Lord Lindores took his guest into the library, gravely 
apologetic. “ I have never seen Rintoul so upset ; his nerves seem 
to have received a shock. I don’t think he cares to go over the 
melancholy story again.” 

‘‘It is very natural,” said little Millefleurs. “ A man who has 
been always at home, who has never roughed it in the world, naturally 
loses his head when he first comes in contact with tragedy, don’t 
you know. I did myself in California the first time I touched actual 
blood. But that was murder, which is a different sort of thing.” 

“ Very different,” said Lord Lindores ; and he proceeded to 
satisfy his guest with an account of all the particulars, to which 
Millefleurs listened very seriously. He had the Scaur described to 
him with much minuteness, and how it might be possible that such 
an accident could happen. Instinctively Lord Lindores made it 
appear that the wonder was it had not happened before. “ I warned 
poor Torrance repeatedly,” he said ; although he had in equal good 
faith expressed his amazement that such a thing could happen to a 
man who knew the place so well, only a short time before. Mille- 
fleurs listened to everything very gravely, giving the profoundest 
attention to every detail. 

The house was full of agitation and excitement, and Lord Lin- 
dores sent repeatedly for his son to consult with him over what ought 
to be done ; but Rintoul was not to be found. He had gone out, 
the servants said ; and the general impression was that he had re- 
turned to Tinto, though he could only have done that by a long walk 
through the gloomy night. Millefleurs went out into the grounds 
while this question was proceeding. He had a great many things to 
think about. He lit his cigar and wandered about, thoughtfully 
discussing with himself various questions. Did Edith mean that he 
should stay ? Had he any right to stay in the circumstances of the 
family ? He had a strong desire to do so that was not entirely con- 
nected with Edith. To be sure, the suspense in which he was kept, 
the impossibility of addressing her at such a moment would have 
made a passionate lover very restless ; but Millefleurs was not the 
sort of stuff out of which passionate lovers are made. He thought 
Edith would make him a delightful wife, and that with such a wife 
he would be a very happy man ; but he did not feel that heaven and 
earth would be changed to him without Edith, and therefore other 
motives were free to come in. He had something in his mind which 
for the moment almost obliterated all thoughts of her. He walked 
up and down in the darkness, turning it over and over in his mind. 


236 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


Vaguely, one way or another, this thought was associated with Edith 
too. After some time he perceived another red spark in the dark- 
ness, and became aware of some one else smoking, like himself, a 
thoughtful cigar. He called out to Rintoul and came upon him at 
the end of an alley. Millefleurs had an internal conviction that Rin- 
toul wished to avoid him, so he went up to him quickly and caught 
him by the arm. 

It was thought that you had gone back to Tinto,” he said, put- 
ting his arm familiarly through his. He had to reach upon tiptoe to 
do it, but this was what pleased Millefleurs. 

What 1 walking at this time of night ? I am not so eager about 
it,” said Rintoul. Besides, what should I do there ? Everything 
is settled so far as it can be for to-night, and my mother and Edith 
have gone to Carry : there is no need for me.” 

“I wish you would tell me all about it, my dear Rintoul.” 

Didn’t my father tell you ? ” 

Yes, in his way ; but that is different. You want the details 
from an eye-witness, don’t you know. You want to see it through 
the eyes that have seen it. I have a great curiosity about that kind 
of thing ever since I have been in California, where it is an incident 
of every-day life.” 

^Mt is not an incident of every-day life here, and I’m sick of it,” 
cried Rintoul. Don’t question me any more — it’s too terrible. It 
must have been instantaneous, they say ; that is the only comfort 
about the business — everything else is hideous from beginning to 
end.” 

Ah, from the beginning — that is just what I want to talk to you 
about,” said Millefleurs. 

He felt a thrill in the arm he held, and an inclination as if to 
throw him off ; but he was not to be thrown off ; he was small, but 
very tenacious, and clung to his hold. 

That is what I want to know — the beginning. Did he meet any 
one ? had he any dispute or altercation in the wood ? ” 

None that I know of,” said Rintoul. He spoke sulkily, almost 
in an undertone, so that Millefleurs had to concentrate his attention 
upon the voice, which was interrupted by all the sounds in the air, 
the rustling of the trees, the sough of the river far away. 

“ Did you see any one about ? ” said Millefleurs. 

The two men were in the dark,; they could not see each other’s 
faces ; yet they stopped and looked at each other anxiously, sus- 
piciously — each at the red end of the other’s cigar, which disclosed 
a mustache (a shadow) above. 

Any one about ? I don’t think there was any one about,” said 
Rintoul, still more sullenly. What should put that into your 
mind ? You were not there ?” 

This was a curious question, but Millefleurs made no note of it, 
his mind being possessed by an entirely different idea. He said, 
‘‘No, 1 was not there. I drove home with your mother, don’t you 
know. To think we should have passed, without the least knowing 
it, the place which so soon was to be the scene of such a tragedy ! ” 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


237 


‘‘ Don’t romance about it. It’s bad enough as it is. You did 
not pass the scene. It was on the other road, a long way from 
yours.” 

At which side ? ” 

The left side,” said Rintoul, carelessly. I wish, if you don’t 
mind, that you would change the subject. My nerves are all wrong. 
I didn’t know I was such a feeble beggar. I’d rather not dwell upon 
it, if you don’t mind.” 

“The left side?” said Millefleurs, with a sigh, and then there 
was a pause. “ You are quite sure,” he added, anxiously, “ that 
you did not see any one in the wood ? ” 

Rintoul almost thrust this question away. “ I tell you I won’t be 
questioned,” he said. Then, composing himself with an effort, I 
beg your pardon, Millefleurs ; I never liked the man, though he was 
my brotherrin-law ; and to see all at once a fellow whom, perhaps, 
you had been thinking badly of two minutes before, wishing no good 

to — to see him lying there stiff and stark ” 

“ I beg you a thousand pardons, Rintoul,” Millefleurs said gravely. 
And they went in together, saying no more. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Lady Lindores and Edith were carried along through the dark- 
ness of the night with that curious sense of rapid, unseen movement 
which has in it a kind of soothing influence upon suspense and men- 
tal distress. They spoke to each other in the darkness of Carry- 
poor Carry ! how would she take it ? — but yet never ventured, even 
to each other, to express the innermost feeling in their minds on this 
subject. As they drove along, the gleam of other lamps went rap- 
idly past them close to the gate of Dalrulzian, leading back their 
thoughts for a moment to other interests. “ It is John Erskine’s dog- 
cart. Is he going away? is it some one arriving? has he been din- 
in gsomewhere ? ” Lady Lindores said, with tl^e unconscious curiosity 
of the country. Then she said, with a little shudder, “ I wonder if 
he can have heard ? ” — that first question which always suggests itself 
in the face of a great event. “ How strange to think that some one 
has been peacefully dining out while that has been happening — so 
near ! ” Edith answered only by pressing her mother’s arm, in which 
her own was entwined, as they sat close together for mutual consola- 
tion. She had other troubled, wandering thoughts aching in her own 
heart ; but of these she said nothing, but watched the lamps turning 
up the Dalrulzian avenue with a thrill of mingled feeling, half angry 
that he should not have divined that she was in trouble, half glad 
that he thus proved his ignorance of all that had occurred. Thus 
unknowing, Carry’s mother and sister crossed in the dark another 
new actor in Carry’s history, of whom no one as yet had thought. 


238 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


Carry was seated in her own room alone. It was her natural 
refuge at such a moment. A fire had been lighted by the anxious 
servants — who saw her shiver in the nervous excitement of this great 
and terrible event — and blazed brightly, throwing ruddy gleams of 
light through the room, and wavering ghostly shadows upon the wall. 
The great bed, with its tall canopies and heavy ornaments, shrouded 
round with satin curtains, looped and festooned with tarnished gold 
"lace and every kind of clumsy grandeur, stood like a sort of cata- 
falque, the object of a thousand airy assaults and attacks from the fan- 
tastic light, but always dark — a funereal object in the midst ; while 
the tall, polished wardrobes all round the room gave back reflections 
like dim mirrors, showing nothing but the light. Two groups of can- 
dles on the high mantel-piece, twinkling against the dark wall, were 
the only other illuminations. 

Carry sat sunk in a big chair close to the fire. If she could have 
cried — if she could have talked and lamented — if she could have gone 
to bed, or, failing this, if she had read her Bible — the maids in the 
house, who hung about the doors in anxiety and curiosity, would have 
felt consoled for her. But she did none of these. She only sat there, 
her slight figure lost in the depths of the chair, still in the white dress 
which she had worn to receive her guests in the morning. She had 
not stirred (the women said, gathering round Lady Lindores in whis- 
pering eagerness) for hours, and had not even touched the cup of tea 
they had carried to her. Oh, my lady, do something to make her 
cry ! ” the women said. If she doesn^t get it out it’ll break her 
heart.” They had forgotten, with the facile emotion which death, 
and especially a death so sudden, calls forth, that the master had 
been anything but the most devoted of husbands, or his wife other 
than the lovingest of wives. This pious superstition is always ready 
to smooth away the horror of deaths which are a grief to no one. 

Your man’s your man when a’s done, even if he’s but an ill ane,” 
was the sentiment of the awe-stricken household. Ye never ken 
what he’s been to ye till ye lose him.” 

It gave them all a sense of elevation that Lady Caroline should, 
as they thought, be wrapped in hopeless grief ; it made them think 
better of her and of themselves. The two ladies went into the 
ghostly room with something of the same felling. Lady Lindores 
felt that she understood it — that she had expected it. Had not her 
own mind been filled by sudden compunction — the thought that per- 
haps she had been less tolerant of the dead man than she ought?— and 
how much more must Carry, poor Carry, have felt the awe and pang 
of an almost remorse to think that he was gone without a word 
against whom her heart had risen in such rebellion, yet who was of 
all men the most closely involved in her very being ? 

Lady Lindores comprehended it all ; and yet it was a relief to her 
mind that Carry felt it so, and could thus wear the garb of mourning 
with reality and truth. She went in with her heart full, with tears 
in her eyes, the profoundest tender pity for the dead, the deepest 
sympathy with her child in sorrow. The room was very large, very 
still, very dark, save for that ruddy twilight, the two little groups of 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


239 


pale lights glimmering high up upon the wall, and no sign of any 
human presence. ‘‘ Carry, my darling ! ” her mother said, won- 
dering and dismayed. Then there was a faint sound, and Carry 
rose, tall, slim, and white, like a ghost out of the gloom. She had 
been sitting there for hours, lost in thoughts, in dreams, and visions. 
She seemed to herself to have so exhausted this event by thinking of 
it that it was now years away. She stepped forward and met her 
mother, tenderly indeed, but with no effusion. Have you come 
all the way so late to be with me, mother ? How kind, how kind 
you are ! And Edith, too ” 

Kind!” cried Lady Lindores, with an almost angry bewilder- 
ment. Did you not know I would come, Carry, my poor child ? 
But you are stunned with this blow ” 

I suppose I was at first. Yes, I knew you would come — at 
first ; but it seems so long since. Sit down, mother ; you are cold. 

You have had such a miserable drive. Come near to the fire ” 

‘‘ Carry, Carry, dear, never mind us ; it is you we are all think- 
ing of. You must not sit there . thinking, and drive yourself dis- 
tracted.” 

Let me take off this shawl from your cap, mamma. Now you 
look more comfortable. Have you brought your things to stay ? I 
am ringing have fires lit in your rooms. Oh yes, I want you to 
stay. I have never been able to endure this house, you know, and 
those large rooms, and the desert feeling in it. And you will have 

some tea or something. I must give orders ” 

‘‘ Carry,” cried her mother, arresting her hand on the bell, 
“ Edith and I will see to all that. Don’t pay any attention to us. 
I have come to take care of you, my dearest. Carry, dear, your 
nerves are all shattered. How could it be otherwise? You must 
let me get you something — they say you have taken nothing — and 
you must go to bed.” 

“ I don’t think my nerves are shattered. I am quite well. There 
is nothing the matter with me. You forget,” she said, with some- 
thing like a faint laugh, “ how often we have said, mamma, how ab- 
surd to send and ask after a woman’s health when there is nothing 
the matter with her, when only she has lost — ” Here she paused a 
little, and then said, gravely, “ Even grief does not affect the health.” 

“ Very often it does not, dear ; but, Carry, you must not forget 
that you have had a terrible shock. Even I, who am not so nearly 
involved — even I — ” Here Lady Lindores, in her excitement and 
agitation, lost her voice altogether, and sobbed, unable to command 
herself. “Oh, poor fellow! poor fellow!” she said, with broken 
tones. “In a moment, Carry, without warning ! ” 

Carry went to her mother’s side, and drew her head upon her 
breast. She was perfectly composed, without a tear. “ I have 
thought of all that,” she said ; “ I cannot think it matters. If God 
is the Father of us all, we are the same to him dead or living. 
What can it matter to him that we should make preparations to ap- 
pear before him ? Oh, all that must be folly, mother. However 
bad I had been, should I have to prepare to go to you ? ” 


240 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


‘‘Carry — Carry, my darling ! It is I that should be saying this 
to you. You are putting too much force upon yourself — it is un- 
natural ; it will be all the more terrible for you after.” 

Carry stood stooping over her mother, holding Lady Lindores’s 
head against her bosom. She smiled faintly, and shook her head. 

“ Has it not been unnatural altogether ? ” she said. 

To Edith, standing behind, this strange scene appeared like a 
picture — part of the phantasmagoria of which her sister had for^ 
years been the centre. Her mind leaped back to the discussions " 
which preceded Carry’s marriage, the hopeless yielding of the victim, 
the perplexity and misery of the mother. Now they had changed 
positions, but the same strange haze of terror and pity, yet almost 
indignation, was in her own breast. She had been the judge then — in 
a smaller degree she was the judge now. But this plea stopped her 
confused and painful thoughts. Has it not been unnatural alto- 
gether ? Edith’s impulse was to escape from a problem which she 
could not deal with. “ I will go and see the children,” she said. 

“ The children — poor children ! Have you seen them, Carry ? 
do they know ? ” said Lady Lindores, drying the tears — the only 
tears that had been shed for Torrance — from her cheeks. 

Carry did not make any reply. She went away to the other end 
of the room and took up a white shawl in which she wrapped herself. 

“ The only thing I feel is. cold,” she said. 

“ Ah, my love, that is the commonest feeling. I have felt some- 
times as if I could just drag myself to the fire like a wounded animal 
and care for nothing more.” 

“ But, mother, you were never in any such terrible trouble.” 

“ Not like this — but I have lost children,” said Lady Lindores. 
She had to pause again, her lip quivering. “ To be only sorrow, 
there is no sorrow like that.” 

She had risen, and they stood together, the fantastic firelight 
throwing long shadows of them all over the dim and ghastly room. 
Suddenly Carry flung herself into her mother’s arms. “ Oh, my 
innocent mother ! ” she cried. “ Oh, mother \ you only know such 
troubles as angels may have. Look at me ! look at me ! I am like a 
mad-woman. I am keeping myself in, as you say, that I may not go 
mad — with joy ! ” 

Lady Lindores gave a low, terrible cry, and held her daughter 
in her arms, pressing her desperately to her heart as if to silence 
her. “No, Carry — no, no ! ” she cried. 

“It is true. To think I shall never be subject to all /laf any 
more ! that he can never come in here again — that I am free — that 
I can be alone! Oh, mother, how can you tell what it is? Never 
to be alone : never to have a corner in the world where some one 
else has not a right to come — a better right than yourself. I don’t 
know how I have borne it. I don’t know how I can have lived, dis- 
gusted, loathing myself. No, no ; sometime else I shall be sorry 
when I have time to think, when I can forget what it is that has 
happened to me — but in the meantime I am too happy — too ” 

Lady Lindores put her hand upon her daughter’s mouth. “ No, 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


241 


no, Carry — no, no ! I cannot bear it — you must not say it,” she 
cried. 

Carry took her mother’s hands and kissed them, and then began 
to sob — the tears pouring from her eyes like rain. I will not say 
anything,” she cried ; ‘‘ no, no — nothing, mother. I had to tell 
you to relieve my heart. I have been able to think of nothing else 
all these hours. I have never had so many hours to myself for 
years. It is so sweet to sit still and know that no one will burst the 
door open and come in. Here I can be sacred to myself, and sit 
and think — and all quiet — all quiet about me.” Carry looked up, 
clasping her hands, with the tears dropping now and then, but a 
smile quivering upon her mouth and in her eyes. She seemed to 
have reached that height of passionate emotion — the edge where ex- 
pression at its highest almost loses itself, and a blank of all mean- 
ing seems the next possibility. In her white dress, with her up- 
turned face and the wild gleam of rapture in her eyes, she was like 
an unearthly creature. But to describe Lady Lindores’s anguish and 
terror and pain would be impossible. She thought her daughter 
was distraught. Never in her life had she come in contact with 
feeling so-^absolute, subdued by no sense of natural fitness, or even 
by right and wrong. Her only comfort was that Edith had not been 
present to hear and see this revelation. And the truth was that her 
own heart, though so panic-stricken and penetrated with so much 
pity for the dead, understood, too, with a guilty throb the over- 
whelming sense of emancipation which drove everything else from 
Carry’s mind. She had feared it would be so. She would not allow 
herself to think so ; but all through the darkness of the night, as she 
drove along, she had been trembling lest she should find Carry not 
heart-broken but happy, yet had trusted that pity somehow would 
keep her in the atmosphere of gloom which ought to surround anew- 
made widow. It hurt Lady Lindores’s tender heart that a woman 
should be glad when her husband died, however unworthy that hus- 
band might have been. She did her best now to soothe the excited 
creature, who took her excitement for happiness. 

We will talk of this no more to-night, Carry' by and by you 
will see how pitiful it all is. You will feel — as I feel. But in the 
meantime you are worn out. This terrible shock, even though you 
may think you do not feel it, has thrown you into a fever. You must 
let me put you to bed.” 

Not here,” she said with a shudder, looking round the room ; 
*‘not here — I could not rest here.” 

That is natural,” Lady Lindores said with a sigh. You must 
come with me. Carry.” 

Home, mother — home ! Oh, if I could ! — not even to Lindores 
— to one of the old poor places where we were so happy ” 

When we had no home,” the mother said, shaking her head. 
But she, too, got a wistful look in her eyes a:t the recollection. Those 
days when they were poor, wandering, of no account ; when it mat- 
tered little to any one but themselves where they went, what the chil- 
dren might do, what alliances they made. What halcyon days these 


II 


242 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


were to look back on ! In those days this miserable union, which 
had ended so miserably, could never have been made. Was it 
worth while to have had so many additional possessions added to 
them— rank, and apparent elevation — for such a result ? But she 
could not permit herself to think, with Carry sitting by, too ready to 
relapse into those feverish musings which were so terrible. She put 
her arm round her child and drew her tenderly away. They left the 
room with the lights against the wall, and the firelight giving it a 
faux air of warmth and inhabitation. Its emptiness was scarcely less 
tragic, scarcely less significant, than the chill of the other great room 
— the state chamber— in the other wing, where, with lights burning 
. solemnly about him all night, the master of the house lay dead, un- 
watched by either love or sorrow. There were gloom and panic, 
and the shock of a great catastrophe in the house. There were even 
honest regrets ; for he had not been a bad master, though often a 
rough one ; but nothing more tender. 

And Carry lay down with her mother’s arms round her and slept, 
and woke in the night, and asked herself what it was ; then lay still 
in a solemn happiness — exhausted, peaceful — feeling as if she desired 
nothing more. She was delivered. As she lay silent, hidden in the 
darkness and peace of the night, she went over and over this one cer- 
tainty, so terrible yet so sweet. God forgive me ! God forgive 
me ! ” she said softly to herself, her very breathing hushed with the 
sense of relief. She had come out of death into life.' Was it wrong 
to be glad ? That it was a shame and outrage upon nature was no 
fault of poor Carry. Sweet tears rolled into her eyes, her jarred and 
thwarted being came back into harmony. She lay and counted the 
dark silent hours striking one by one, feeling herself all wrapped in 
peace and ease, as if she lay in some sacred shrine. To-morrow 
would bring back the veils and shrouds of outside life — the need of 
concealment, of self-restraint, almost of hypocrisy — the strain and 
pain of a new existence to be begun ; but to-night, this one blessed 
night of deliverance, was her own. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

It was late when John Erskine got home on the afternoon of this 
eventful day. John Tamson’s wife mended his coat for him, and he 
got himself brushed and put in order ; then his excitement calming 
down, he walked slowly home. He argued with himself as he walked 
that to take any farther notice of Torrance’s violence would be un- 
worthy of himself. The fellow had been drinking, no doubt. He 
had been stung in his tenderest point — his pride in his fine house 
and tawdry grandeur— he had felt himself altogether out of place in 
the little company, which included his nearest connections. Not 
much wonder, poor wretch, if he were twisted the wrong way. John 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


243 


forgave him as he grew calmer ; and arriving at home, tired out, 
and somewhat depressed in mind, began at last to feel sorry for Pat 
Torrance, who never had been framed for the position he held. 
The first thing he found when he arrived, to his alarm and dismay, 
was a telegram from Beaufort announcing his arrival that very night. 

Obliged to come ; cannot help myself,” his friend said, apologetic 
even by telegraph. Nothing could well have been more unfor- 
tunate. John felt as if this arrival must put a gulf between him and 
Carry’s family altogether — but it was too late now for any alteration, 
even if he could have, in the circumstances, deserted his friend. 
Perhaps, too, in the crisis at which he had arrived, it would be well 
for him to have some one upon whom he could fall back, some one 
who had been more unfortunate than himself, to whom he could 
talk, who would understand without explanation the extraordinary 
crisis to which his history had come. It was not his doing, nor 
Edith’s doing — they had not sought each other : no intention had 
been in her mind of making a victim of her rural neighbor ; no am- 
bitious project in his of wooing the earl’s daughter. Everything had 
been innocent, unwitting. A few meetings — the most innocent, 
simple intercourse — and lo ! the woe or weal of two lives was con- 
cerned. It seemed hard that so simply, with so little foresight, a 
man might mar his happiness. John was not a sentimentalist, 
determining that his whole existence was to be shattered by such a 
disappointment. He repeated to himself, with a little scorn, 

Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart.” 

But the scorn was of the sentiment, and not any protest against the 
application of it to his own case. The broken tic between Beaufort 
arid Carry was not an example of that superficial poetic deliverance. 
He himself was not like Beaufort, nor Edith like her sister. She would 
never marry a man whom she could not love ; nor would he allow him- 
self to dally with all the objects of life, and let everything slip past 
him. But he knew what would happen, he said to himself in the quiet- 
ness of the silent hours. Life would lose its crown altogether. He would 
‘‘get on ” as if nothing remarkable had befallen him — but the glory 
and the joy would be over without ever having been his. And if 
she shared his feelings, there would be the same result on her side — * 
her life would be lonely, like his ; the flower of existence would be 
stolen from her ; only — if it were possible that Edith did share his 
feelings, then there was still something to be done — there was a 
fight for it still before them. He would not give in like Beaufort, 
nor she take any irremediable step of desperation like Carry. This 
stirred him a little and restored him to himself ; but on the whole, 
despondency was his prevailing feeling — a sense of impossibility, 
the sensation as of a blank wall before him, which it was impossible 
to surmount. 

He had a lonely, dreary evening. His dinner was served to him 
by one’ of the maids, who was frightened and lost her head, Rolls 
still being absent, to the great alarm of the household. Bauby, 
who did not remember the time when her brother had thus forsaken 


244 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


his duties, had been so disturbed in her preparations by anxiety 
that It had almost happened to John as to King Louis, that he had 
to wait for his meal. “ I canna gie my mind to my denner. Whaur’s 
Tammas ? and who’s to take ben the dishes ?>” Bauby cried. 

When the house-maid, arrayed in her best cap and apron, and 
with what she herself called a red face,” blushing like a peony in 
the unusual responsibility and honor, had managed to fulfil the ser- 
•vice of the table, Bauby went out to the kitchen-door and then to 
the avenue to watch. ‘‘ Something ’ll have happened to him,” she 
said, drying her eyes. Na, na ; he’s no’ the man to forget him- 
self. It’s been something he couldna av,ide. The Lord grant it’s 
no’ deadly — that’s a’ I say. We’ve never had an accident in oor 
family, no’ since my grandfather that tummeled down the Broken 
Brig and broke himself a’ to bits, and walkit wi’ a crutch ever after.” 

Bauby had got the length of despair by the time the dog-cart 
came up the avenue bringing the gentleman ” from the station, 
whom Marget, the house-maid, once more tying on her best 
apron, and looking in the glass to see if she had not yet got rid of 
that awfu’ red face,” prepared to attend upon. It was at this mo- 
ment, when Bauby found it required her whole attention to keep 
her tears from dropping upon the bird, which was cooked to a turn 
for Beaufort’s supper, that a sudden welcome voice made her jump 
and almost drop the savory morsel. Eh, Tammas ! what I’ve 
gaen through this nicht ! ” she cried. I thought you were drowned 
in the water, or a’ your banes broken.” 

Hold your peace ! ” said Rolls, with a gloomy countenance ; 
nothing has happened to me.” And he took the tray our of Mar- 
get’s hands without a word. 

The women stood aghast to see him so scowling, dark, and un- 
communicative — proceeding thus into the presence of his master, 
without any attention to his dress. 

Without your claes ! ” Bauby said. 

Hold your peace,” repeated her brother. 

And he paused as he went out of the kitchen and turned round 
solemnly. We have all a hantle mair to think of this night than 
my claes.” 

The solemnity of this address, it is needless to say, made an 
enormous impression upon the maids, who were wont to consder. 
Rolls, next to the minister, as one of the greatest lights of the parish. 
Andrew the gardener came in soon after on some domestic errand, 
and from him they heard something of what had happened at Tinto. 
I’m no’ sure but what the maister here is in it,” Andrew said. 

‘‘ You gomeril ! how can Mr. John be in it, and him biding quiet 
at hame, and no’ looking the gait Pat Torrance was an? ” 

Axveel, I’m saying I kennaething about it, but that something’s 
happened to Tinto and his muckle mear — and the maister’s into it,” 
Andrew replied. 

Meanwhile Rolls had carried in the supper. The library where 
John always sat was cheerful with light and fire. The farther north 
the traveller goes, the more sure he is, with or without occasion, to 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


245 


find a fire. It scarcely enters into the Italian’s idea of comfort at 
all, though he shivers with cold — but it is indispensable to a Scots- 
man’s, though it may be warm. The night was soft and mild, the 
windows wide open, but the ruddy glow made everything cheerful, 
and John Erskine had brightened to meet his visitor : he was sitting 
cheerfully in the light, asking Beaufort the hundred questions with 
which a man a little withdrawn from society assails one who has 
kept within it. Beaufort himself was older and graver : a man with 
a fine picturesque head, somewhat long ; a forehead exceptionally 
white, from which the hair had begun to wear off a little round the 
temples ; a slightly feeble, querulous drop of the lip under his 
mustache. He was very tall, very slim, with long white hands, 
which clasped each other in a nervous habitual motion. Neither 
the one nor the other took any notice of Rolls. They were in full 
flood of talk about old associations, for they had not met for years. 
Rolls made his preparations very deliberately, almost rubbing 
against his master on repeated occasions as he went and came. 
Three or four times over John drew his chair out of the way, a little 
surprised, but paying no particular attention. When this happened, 
however, for the fifth or sixth time, he look up impatiently. “ What 
are you after ? ” he cried. 

Rolls looked at him with a steady, meaning gaze, his eyes star- 
ing, his mouth rigid — he shook his head slightly, very slowly. 

What’s the matter ? ” cried John. 

Beaufort had seated himself at the table, and had begun his meal. 
The others were in the shade behind him, between the fireplace and 
the door. 

‘‘ There’s much the maitter, sir — much the maitter,” said Rolls ; 
more than will be made up for this many a day.” 

What do you mean ? What is it ? You look as if something 
had happened with which I had to do,” John said, half alarmed, half 
amused. 

The only answer Rolls gave was to shake his head once more 
very gravely as he turned away. His look spoke all that he did not 
say. Tragedy was in it, and horror, and pity, and reproach. John 
grew excited in spite of himself. Hey, here, Rolls ! Rolls y I 
say ! What is the meaning of this ? ” he cried. 

Rolls opened the door slowly, solemnly, and disappeared. 

Confound the fellow!” cried John, and rose hastily and fol- 
lowed, with a hurried word to Beaufort. I suppose the mare has 
fallen lame, or there is a tile off the roof,” he said, half laughing. 

Rolls was standing in the partial gloom outside the door. The 
hall-door was open, and the whole darkness of the night showing be- 
yond. Over their heads hung the lamp, flickering in the night air, 
throwing its light upon the impenetrable blackness opposite to it in 
the open door-way, but leaving the two figures in shadow below. 
Rolls stood as if he expected his master. He left him no time to 
ask any question, but said at once, Yon was death, sir I ” in a low 
and solemn tone..^ 


246 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


Yon ! What was death ? I don’t understand you,” John cried, 
in wonder and alarm. Quick, quick I tell me what you mean.” 

It’s but ower easy to tell — yon was death. He’s never stirred. 
Horse and man one heap, and no’ a breath or a tremble in it. It’s 
easy — easy to tell.” 

‘‘ Good God ! Rolls, what do you mean? Not — not the Scaur 
—not ” 

‘‘ That’s what I mean,’” Rolls replied, almost sternly. A bon- 
ny morning’s work ! Just Tinto, poor fellow, with all his faults, and, 
maybe, the drink in him that made it easy. Dead — dead ! ” 

There was a sort of guttural sob in the old man’s voice. His 
heart was wrung, not for Tinto, but with a deeper and closer horror. 
But John neither thought nor understood this. He fell back a step 
and leaned against the wall in horror and bewilderment. Good 
God ! ” he repeated with pale lips, with that instinctive appeal which 
we make without knowing it in the face of every mystery. Under 
any circumstances the suddenness and terribleness of the event 
would have appalled him ; but now, at this moment, with Beaufort 
under his roof ! he could only gasp for breath — he could not speak. 
And he was not aware how eagerly Rolls was noticing every look and 
gesture, and how his agitation struck the old servant to the heart. 
He asked a few farther questions in profound horror and dismay, 
then went back to his friend with a ghastly countenance, shaken to 
the bottom of his heart. The very consciousness that behind this 
sudden and terrible death stood life, added to the effect. He went 
back to tell Beaufort of it. That was indeed his first intention, but 
second thoughts presented to him the embarrassing nature of such a 
corhmunication at the very moment of his friend’s arrival. Beau- 
fort did not notice — being occupied with his supper — the pallor and 
agitation which had produced so great an effect upon old Rolls. 
But after a while, as John said nothing, he turned half round and 

said, I hope nothing serious has happened to the mare ” 

The mare — Oh yes, it was something very serious — not to be 
made a jest of. A fatal accident has happened — to one of my neigh- 
bors. It is appalling in any case to hear of anything so sudden ; but 
what makes it worse is that I spent some part of to-day in his com- 
pany. It is not above four or five hours since I parted with him. 
We had even a little altercation,” said John, with a slight shudder. 

There’s a bitter lesson for you ! To quarrel with a man without 
a thought of any harm, and a little while after to hear that he is dead, 
with an unkind thought of you in his heart, and you with hard 
thoughts of him ! ” 

Beaufort answered gravely and sympathetically, as became such 
an announcement. Was he a man you liked ? Was he a friend ? ” 
No ; neither a friend nor a man I liked, but young and strong : 
such a frame of a man ! — worth you and me put together ; and to 

think that in a moment ” 

How did it happen ? ” Beaufort asked. 

I scarcely asked. He must have fallen, he and his horse, down 
a precipice — the Scaur — a place he had often been cautioned against, 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


247 


I believe. Good heavens ! to think of it ! I thought he must have 
gone over as we spoke.” 

And John got up and walked about the room in his excitement. 
This interrupted altogether the lively flow of conversation with which 
they had begun the evening. There were one or two attempts made 
to resume it. But Erskine relapsed in a few moments either into ex- 
clamations of dismay, or into restless and uncomfortable silence of 
thought. The fact was, not only that Torrance’s sudden death had 
startled his imagination and awoke some compunctions in his mind, 
as in that of Lady Lindores, but that it opened to him a whole con- 
fusing sea of speculations and possibilities. It was extraordinary 
that on the very day which should see this happen, Beaufort had ar- 
rived. And what would Lady Caroline now say ? — she who, with 
such self-betraying emotion, had entreated John to keep his friend 
away. What might happen now were they to meet ? John shrunk 
from the suggestion as from an impiety, and yet it would come back. 
It was evident to Beaufort that his friend was out of sorts and pro- 
foundly agitated. He withdrew early to his room, pleading that he 
was tired, to leave John to himself. It did not concern him (Beau- 
fort) to be sure, but it must, he felt, touch Erskine more than he was 
willing to show. And it was a relief to John to be alone. His mind, 
left to itself, pursued the question, not so much of the dead as of the 
living. He did not call back Rolls to question him on the accident, 
as he had intended to do ; for it was Carry he thought of, not poor 
Torrance, after the first moment. What would Carry do ? What 
would she think when she found, in the first moment of her freedom, 
Beaufort so near? The idea overwhelmed him. There seemed a 
certain indelicacy and precipitancy in the thought. He had risen in 
his restlessness and opened the window, as he had been in the habit 
of doing, to breathe the freshness of the night air, when Rolls came 
in, pale, and with a harassed, stealthy look. He came up to his 
master, and, seeing that he was not observed, touched him on the 
arm. If you are going out, sir, to take a walk — or that,” he said, 
with quivering lips — ‘H’ve brought you a coat and some haps ” 

John looked at him with surprise. The old man was gray and 
ghastly ; his lips quivered. He had a dark coat carefully folded over 
his arm, several comforters and a plaid. There was a tremor in his 
whole figure, and his eyes had a wild look of inquiry and fear. 

Take a walk ! Why should I take a walk at this time of 
night.” 

‘‘ Oh, I’m not saying : gentlemen has strange fancies. I’m not 
one to pry. I’ll put the haps here, in case you should want them. 
You’ll find a drop brandy in your flask, and a few sandwiches in the 
pocket,” he added, in an undertone. 

Sandwiches ! You must be taking leave of your senses. Where 
do you suppose I should want to go ? ” 

‘‘ I would rather not know, sir,” said Rolls, solemnly turning 
away. What good would it do me to know? I’ll not listen nor 
look. I have no-thing ado with it ; but oh, if you’ll take my advice, 
go — go out of harm’s way.” 


248 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


I believe you are mad, Rolls.” 

‘‘ I have plenty to make me sae, at the least of it,” Rolls said, 
and putting down the coat ostentatiously on a chair, he hobbled out 
of the room, closing the door carefully behind him. John could hear 
his steps going stealthily upstairs to the window in the gallery above, 
where they seemed to pause, and the window was carefully opened. 
A wild bewilderment seized upon his mind. Of what was it that the 
old servant was afraid.? 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Next day the country-side far and near thought and talked of 
nothing but the fatal accident at Tinto, which was such a public 
event as moved everybody. There was no figure in the district more 
widely known than that of Pat Torrance on his black mare ; a pow- 
erful horse and powerful man, looking as if they could defy every 
power of nature ; and it thrilled every village far and near, every 
lone farm-steading and cluster of cottages for miles round, to be told 
that Black Jess and her master had both been ended by one false 
step, and that Pat Torrance, strong and rich and potent as he was, 
had died the death of a dog, unaided, unseen. 

The news ran from village to village like the fiery cross— every- 
where expanding into new details and a deeper and deeper horror of 
description. First the bare fact, then all these additional circum- 
stances, making it more and more visibly evident to every excited 
listener, filled the air. Each new passer-by was like a new edition 
of a newspaper, and had heard something more. How the two bod- 
ies had been found, horse and man ; how Tinto had been warned 
over and over again of the danger of the Scaur, and would lis- 
ten to no advice on the subject, but insisted on leaving it as it was, 
.either for the sake of the view (though it was little he was heed- 
ing about views), or for the brag, which was more likely ; and how 
he was got uo with much trouble, and carried in dead to his own 
house, which he had left in all his pride an hour or two before. 

What ground for reflection upon the vicissitudes of life was here 1 
There was not a group of two or three people anywhere but one at 
least would shake the head and lift up the voice of wisdom, bidding 
the others note how in the midst of life we were in death. And when 
this first horror was exhausted, there ensued the brief summing up 
of character and life, the rapid history in which our neighbors epit- 
omize us as soon as we are ended. 

There were no illusions on the subject of wild Pat Torrance ; but 
on the whole he fared well in the hands of the rude country-folk, 
whose taste was not fine enough to be offended by his roughnesses. 
In spite of all his vices and extravagances, he had a certain good- 
fellowship with his inferiors in position, a rough familiarity of ad- 


THE LADIES ^LTNDORES. 


249 


dress which passed for kindness, and conciliated the common mind. 
On every side the wild incidents of his youth were recalled, 
not unkindly. Eh, poor Tinto — poor fallow ! I mind when he 
was a young lad — the commentors began on every side. And the 
women concluded that perhaps if he had gotten a wife more like 
himself, things might have been different. The rural imagination 
accepted him as he was, with many a sage reflection, but little cen- 
sure on the whole — winding up the story of his feats and frolics, 
his stormy, wild career, with a big rustic sigh for the ploughboy- 
gentleman, the rude laird who was so near to them. 

The tragedy was as complete and typical as the primitive his- 
torian could desire. And the man who would take no warning, but 
kept the dangerous spot unguarded that he might get his death on it, 
was as broad an example of human rashness and blindness as could 
have been selected. Wild Pat Torrance, poor fellow ! It was just 
the end which everybody might have expected, it was allowed on all 
hands. 

But presently there arose a chill whisper, like the first creeping 
upward of an east wind, bringing grayness and blight over earth 
and sky. Who can say how this atmospheric influence rises, which 
one moment is not, and the next has covered the country with an 
ungenial chill ? It was the same with this moral cloud, which came, 
nobody knew from whence, nor how, rising in a moment. The 
origin of it could not be brought home to any individual, but there 
it was. 

After all, how could it be that Black Jess, used to every step of 
the way, went over the Scaur ? In a moment the tide of popular 
comment changed, and those who had pointed out the awful justice 
of Fate, by which Pat Torrance had been made to bring about his 
own fate by his obstinacy, began to say that so bold a rider never 
could have lost his life on so well known a road— without foul play. 
Accident I how could it be accident, without some human hand to 
help ? 

It was not till the second morning that this development of the 
tragedy came ; and it took the whole of that day to establish the 
connection — which flashed upon the general mind like lightning at 
last — between John Erskine’s torn sleeve and dishevelled appearance 
and the fate of Torrance. John Tamson swore with angry oaths 
afterward that it was not from him the tale came ; but others had 
seen young Dalrulzian, flushed and muddy, coming from the gate of 
Tinto on that eventful afternoon ? and when the community began 
to think it over and compare notes, nothing could be more natural 
than the conclusion to which they came. If .the original news had 
flown over the country like the war-signal of the old clans, this was 
like the spreading of a sheet of flame ; it burst out at point after 
point after the merest touch of contact. 

Young Dalrulzian was little known. The country knew no stories 
of his youth to endear him. He had been brought up far away. He 
was an Englishman — almost an alien. And Tinto, it was well known, 
was rough of speech, and couldna bide’^ the dainty and delicate. 

II* 


250 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


What if they met in the wood ; what if there had been a struggle 
— if the weaker man, who had no chance against the stronger, had 
seized Black Jess by the bridle, and driven the high-spirited animal 
frantic ? The groups who had been recalling all the old stories of 
Tinto now changed like magic into little committees of accusation, 
with their heads close together, framing their indictment. The ques- 
tion was given against John Erskine all over the country before the 



of the second day. 


There is no coroner’s inquest in Scotland. When a death is at- 
tended by doubtful circumstances the procedure is slower and more 
elaborate, and private individuals are reluctant to move in a matter 
so painful. But yet the atmosphere of suspicion and popular con- 
demnation stole into Dalrulzian as it had crept over the whole country. 
It conveyed itself to the supposed criminal himself in a subtle sense 
of something wrong. He had not a notion what it was, neither did 
he know at first that it was he who was the object disapproved of ; 
but it was impossible not to feel that something was wrong. 

The aspect of Rolls himself, conjoined with his extraordinary be- 
havior on the night of Torrance’s death, was remarkable enough to 
excite alarm. The old servant seemed to have grown ten years older 
in a single night. His face was furrowed with deep lines, his 
shoulders bowed, his step tottering. The pathos and earnestness 
of the looks which he bent upon his young master were indescribable. 
The air, half critical, half paternal, with which he had been wont to 
regard him was gone. He no longer interfered in every arrange- 
ment with that sense of superior wisdom which had amused John 
from the moment of his arrival. All the humor of the situation was 
over. Intense gravity, almost solemnity, was in the countenance of 
Rolls ; he was constantly on the watch, as if he expected unwelcome 
visitors. Beaufort, who was not given J;o mirth, was roused out of 
his gravity by the melancholy aspect of Methusaleh, as he called him. 

One would think your servants expected you to be carried off to 
prison for high-treason,” he said, laughing — for Rolls was not the 
only one in the house who regarded John with these alarmed and 
solemn eyes. 

Bauby, who on ordinary occasions had nothing but a broad smile 
and look of maternal admiration for her young master, was continu- 
ally visible, gazing at him from unexpected corners with her apron 
at her eyes. When he asked her if she wanted anything with him, 
she would murmur, “ Oh, Mr. John ! ” and cry. The other maids, 
supporting her behind, fled from his presence. The gardener re- 
garded him with a sort of stern inquiry when he passed, carrying 
his basket of vegetables to the house. John was disturbed, as a man 
of sympathetic nature cannot help being disturbed, by this curious 
atmosphere of discomfort. He could not tell what it was. 

Beaufort was not an inspiriting companion for a man thus per- 
plexed and confounded. To find himself in the district where Carry 
lived, to be in her neighborhood, yet separated from her as by walls of 
iron, impressed his languid mind with a deeper shade of that senti- 
mental consciousness which was habitual to him. Her name had 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


25 X 

not yet been mentioned between the friends ; but Beaufort walked 
about the country roads in a constant state of expectation, feeling 
that every carriage he heard approaching might reveal to him the 
face which he longed yet feared to see. And for the first three or 
four days this was all the entertainment which John provided for his 
friend. He was full of embarrassment as to the situation altogether. 
Lady Lindores and Edith were, he had heard, at Tinto, where he 
could not disturb them ; and he felt no inclination to make his appear- 
ance at Lindores in their absence. 

Torrance’s death and Beaufort’s presence seemed, indeed, to 
place impassable barriers between him and them. It would have 
been sufficiently uncomfortable, he had felt, to produce his friend 
there in the lifetime of Carry’s husband ; but to present him now, 
when so unexpectedly, so tragically. Carry was once more free, be- 
came an impossibility. In every way John felt himself paralyzed. The 
air affected him, he could not tell how. He took his companion out 
walking all over the country, and drove him to long distances in his 
dog-cart, but introduced him to no one, nor ever went to any other 
house. And nobody called during this curious interval. 

The two men lived like hermits, and talked of their old comrades 
and associations, but never of the new. John even answered Beau- 
fort’s question about Tinto, which was one of the first points in the 
landscape which attracted his curiosity, without telling him of the 
tragedy which had happened there. ‘‘ It belongs to the Tor- 
rances,” he had said abruptly, and no more. It did not seem possi- 
ble to tell Beaufort that her husband was dead. Troublesome as his 
coming was at any time, it seemed almost an immodest intrusion 
now ; and John was disturbed and harassed by it. His mind was 
sufficiently troubled and uneasy on his own account ; and this seemed 
like an odious repetition, intensification of his own circumstances. 
Two unfortunate lovers together, with the two ladies of their choice 
so separated from them, though so near ; and now this utterly bewil- 
dering and distracting new element brought into the dilemma, throw- 
ing a wild and feverish gleam of impious possibility on what had 
been so impossible before. He could not speak of it ; he could not 
breathe Edith’s name or Carry’s into the too sympathetic, anxious 
ear of his friend. He held him at arm’s-length, and talked of Dick 
and Tom and Harry, the comrades of the past, but never of what was 
so much more deeply interesting and important to both of them now. 

Look here, Erskine,” said Beaufort, I thought you were see- 
ing a great deal of — your neighbors, and that Millefleurs would have 
come to me before now. I shall have to send him word I am here.” 

‘‘ To be sure. I had forgotten Millefleurs,” said John. ^^You for- 
get I only knew of your coming a few hours before you arrived.” 

‘‘ But I thought — people in the country see so much of each other 
generally.” 

They have been — engaged — with family matters,” said John. 

‘‘ Do you mean to say it is all settled ? and that Millefleurs is to 
marry — — ” 

‘‘I know nothing about marrying,” cried John, harshly ; and 


252 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


then, recollecting himself, he added, in a subdued tone, there can 
be nothing of that sort going on at present. It is death, not mar- 
riage, that occupies them now.” 

Beaufort opened his languid eyes and looked with curiosity in his 
friend’s face. ‘Ms it so ? Yet Millefleurs stays on. That looks as 
if very intimate relations had been established, Erskine.” 

“ Does it ? I don’t know what relations have been established,” 
John said, with visible impatience. And he got up and went out of 
the room abruptly, breaking off all farther discussion. Beaufort sent 
a note to his pupil that evening. It was the fourth or fifth day after 
his arrival. “ I made sure I should have seen you, or I would have 
let you know my whereabouts sooner,” he wrote. He was himself 
oppressed by the atmosphere round him, without knowing why. He 
had expected a genial Scotch house, full of company and life, with 
something of that exaggeration of fancy which had made Dalrulzian 
so wonderfully disappointing to John himself— a house where, amid 
the movement of lively society, his own embarrassing position would 
have been softened, and he might even have met his former love in 
the crowd without special notice or more pain than was inevitable. 
But he seemed to have dropped instead into a hermitage, almost 
into a tomb. 

Millefleurs made his appearance next morning, very grave too, 
as everybody seemed in this serious country, and with none of his 
usual chirruping confidence. “ I Tiever guessed you were here,” he 
said ; “ everything, of course, at Lindores is wrapped in gloom.” 

“ There has been a death,” said Beaufort. 

“ A death — yes. Has not Erskine told you ? A tragedy : noth- 
ing so terrible has happened here for ages. You’ve heard, Erskine,” 
he said, turning round suddenly upon John, who was in the back-* 
ground, “ that -there are suspicions of foul play.” 

John came forward into the light ; there was embarrassment and 
annoyance in his face. “ I have said nothing to Beaufort about it — 
he did not know the man — why should I ? What did you say there 
were suspicions of? ” 

Millefleurs looked him full in the face, with a curious direct look, 
and answered, with a certain sternness, oddly inappropriate to his 
cast of countenance, “ Foul Play ! ” 

John was startled. He looked up with a movement of surprise, 
then returned Millefleurs’s gaze with a mingled expression of aston- 
ishment and displeasure. “ Foul play ! ” he said ; “ impossible ! ” 
then added, “ Why do you look at me so ? ” 

Millefleurs did not make any reply. He turned to Beaufort, who 
stood by puzzled, looking on. “ I ought not to stay,” he said ; “ but 
Lord Lindores seems to wish it, and there are some things to be 
settled ; and I am very much interested besides. There is no 
coroner in Scotland, I hear. How will the investigation be man- 
aged ? ” he said, turning to John again. 

“ Lord Millefleurs,” said John, who was not unwilling, in his gen- 
eral sense of antagonism and annoyance, to pick a quarrel, “ your 
look at me requires some explanation. What does it mean ? ” 


THE LADIES LTNDORES, 


253 


There was a moment’s silence, and they stood opposite to each 
other, little Millefleurs’s plump person, with all its curves, drawn up 
into an attitude of dignity, his chubby countenance set, while John 
looked down upon him with an angry contempt merging toward ridi- 
cule. The group was like that of an indignant master and school- 
boy ; but it was evident that the school-boy meant defiance. 

It means — just such an interpretation as you choose to give it,” 
said Millefleurs. 

‘‘ For Heaven’s sake,” said Beaufort, no more of this ! Mille- 
fleurs, are you out of your senses ? Erskine, you must see this is 
folly. Don’t make up a quarrel out of nothing.” 

John made a distinct effort to control himself. To me it ap- 
pears nothing,” he said ; I cannot even guess at any meaning that 
may be in it ; but Millefleurs means something, Beaufort, as you 
can very easily see.” 

At this moment Rolls put his head in at the door. It’s Sir 
James Montgomery come to see you. I have showed him into the 
drawing-room, for it’s on business,” the old man said. He was 
standing behind the door when John came out, and his master could 
not help remarking that he was trembling in every limb. ‘‘ The 
Lord help us a’ ! you’ll be cautious, sir,” Rolls said. 

John, in his perplexity and gathering wonder, seized him by the 
arm. ‘‘ In God’s name. Rolls, what do you mean ? ” 

Swear none, sir,” said the old servant — swear none ; but oh, 
be cautious, for the love of God ! ” 

John Erskine walked into the room in which Sir James awaited 
him, with a sense of wonder and dismay which almost reached the 
length of stupefaction. What did they all mean ? He had not a 
clew, not the faintest thread of guidance. Nothing had in his own 
thoughts connected him even with the tragedy at Tinto. He had 
been doubly touched and impressed by it in consequence of the fact 
that he had seen the unfortunate Torrance so short a time before ; 
but that he could, by the wildest imagination, be associated with the 
circumstances of his death did not occur to him for a moment. The 
idea did not penetrate his mind even now, but he felt that there was 
some shadow which he could not penetrate lying upon him. A 
blinding veil seemed thrown over his faculties. There was a mean- 
ing in it, but what the meaning was he could not tell. He went in 
to his new visitor with a confusion which he could not shake off, hop- 
ing, perhaps, that some sort of enlightenment might be got through 
him. Sir James was standing against one of the windows, against 
the light, with his hat in his hands. His whole attitude told of em- 
barrassment and distress. He made no movement as if intending 
to sit down — did not step forward heartily, as his custom was, to en- 
fold John’s hand in his own with cheerful cordiality, but stood there 
ugainst the light, smoothing his hat round and round in his hand. 
It petrified John to see his old friend so. He went up as usual with 
outstretched hand, but Sir James only touched the tip of his fingers 
with an embarrassed bow. ^ Instead of his usual genial aspect he 


254 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


half averted his face, and kept his eyes on his hat, even when he 
spoke. 

Mr. Erskine/’ he said, with hesitation, I came to see you. I 
mean, I wanted to have some little conversation with you, if you 
have no objections, about — about this sad aifair.’' 

What sad affair John was bewildered, but still more angry 
than bewildered. What was the meaning of it all ? Was the entire 
world in a conspiracy against him ? 

Sir,” said the old general, giving him one look of reproof, 
such events are not so common in our quiet country-side that there 
should be any doubt as to what I mean.” 

Unless what you mean is to drive me distracted,” cried John. 
‘‘What is it? First Millefleurs, then you! In Heaven’s name, 
what do you mean ? What have I done, that your aspect is changed 
— that you speak to me like a stranger, like a culprit, like — Speak 
out, by all means ! What is this sad affair ? In what way have I 
wTonged any man ? Why should my friends turn upon me, and call 
me Sir, and Mr. Erskine ? What have I done ? ” 

“ I wish to judge no man,” said Sir James ; “ I wish to act in 
the spirit of charity. It was the opinion, not only of myself — for I 
have not that much confidence in my own judgment — but the 
opinion of two or three gentlemen, well-judging men, that if I were 
to make an appeal to you in the matter, to implore you in confi- 
dence — that is, if there is any explanation that can be given. We 
are all inclined to that view. I may seem harsh, because my heart 
is just sick to think of it ; but we are all inclined to believe that an 
explanation would be possible. Of course, it is needless to say that 
if there is no explanation, neither the law permits, nor would we 
wish to lead any one to criminate himself.” 

“ Sir James,” said John, “ you hav^ made me a strange speech. 
There is a great deal of offence in it ; but I do not wish to notice 
the offence. Speak out ! I know no dreadful event that has hap- 
pened in the country but poor Torrance’s death. Do you mean to 
tell me that you suspect me of having any hand in that ? ” 

Sir James looked up at him from the hat which he was pressing 
unconsciously in his hands. His countenance was full of distress, 
every line moving, his eyes moist and agitated. “ My poor lad,” 
he said, “ God knows, we’re all ready to make allowances for a 
moment’s passion I A man that has been hurried by impulse into a 
sudden step — that has consequences he never dreamed of — he will 
sometimes try to hide it, and make it look far worse — far worse ! 
Openness is the only salvation in such a case. It was thought that 
you might confide in me, an old man that has always been friendly 
to you. For God’s sake, John Erskine, speak out ! ” 

“What do you suppose I can have to say?” said John, im- 
pressed, in spite of himself and all his instinctive resistance, by the 
anxious countenance and pleading tones of the kind old man who 
had been charged with such an office. He was so much startled 
and awed by the apparent consent of so many to attribute some- 
thing to him — something which he began dimly to divine, with- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


255 


out even guessing how far public opinion had gone — that the color 
went out of his cheeks, and his breath came quick with agitation. 
Such signs of excitement maybe read in many ways. To Sir James 
they looked like remorseful consciousness and alarm. 

“ We are all very willing to believe,” he said, slowly, that you 
took the beast by the bridle, perhaps in self-defence. He was an 
incarnate devil when he was roused — poor fellow ! He would have 
ridden a man down in his temper. You did that, meaning nothing 
but to hold him off, and the brute reared. If you had raised an 
alarm then and there, and told the circumstances, little blame, if 
any, could have been laid on you. Silence was your worst plan — 
your worst plan ! That’s the reasofi why I have come to you. You 
took fright instead, and hurried away without a word, but not with- 
out tokens on you of your scuffle. If you would open your heart 
now, and disclose all the circumstances, it might not be too late.” 

John stood gazing speechless, receiving into his mind this extra- 
ordinary revelation with an almost stupefying sense of how far the 
imagination had gone. What was it his countrymen thought him 
guilty of? Was it murder — 7nurderf The light seemed to fall 
from his eyes for a moment ; his very heart grew sick. He had 
time to run through all the situation while the old man labored 
slowly through this speech, hesitating often, pausing for the most 
lenient words, anxiously endeavoring to work upon the feelings of 
the supposed culprit. With horror and a sudden panic he perceived 
how all the circumstances fitted into this delusion, and that it was 
no mere piece of folly, but a supposition which might well seem 
justified. He remembered everything in the overpowering light 
thus poured upon the scene ; his torn coat, his excitement — nay, 
more, the strong possibility that everything might have happened 
just as his neighbors had imagined it to have happened. And yet 
it had not been so ; but how was he to prove his innocence ? For a 
moment darkness seemed to close around him. Sir James’s voice 
became confused with a ringing in his ears ; his very senses seemed 
to grow confused and failed him. He heard the gasp in his own 
throat to get breath when silence ensued — a silence which fell blank 
around him, and which he maintained unconsciously, with, a blind 
stare at his accuser’s most gentle, most pitying countenance. How 
like it was to the scare and terror of blood-guiltiness suddenly 
brought to discovery ! 

But gradually this sickness and blankness cleared off around him 
like a cloud, and he began to realize his position. Sit down,” he 
said, hoarsely, and I will tell you every particular I know.” 


256 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Left to themselves, Millefleurs and Beaufort stood opposite to 
each other for a moment with some embarrassment. To have any- 
thing to do with a quarrel is always painful for the third person ; 
and it was so entirely unexpected, out of the way of all his habits, 
that Beaufort felt himself exceptionally incapable of dealing with it. 
‘‘ Millefleurs,” he said, with hesitation, ‘‘ 1 don’t understand all this. 
That was a very strange tone to take in speaking to — a friend.” 

He felt for the first time like a tutor discharging an uncomfortable 
office, knowing that it must be done, yet that he was not the man to 
do it, and that of all the youthful individuals in the world, the last 
person to be so lectured was Millefleurs. 

‘‘ Naturally you think so. The circumstances make all the differ- 
ence, don’t you know,” said Millefleurs, with his ordinary compos- 
ure. ‘‘ And the situation. In ’Frisco it might not have been of any 
great consequence. Helping a bully out of the world is not much of a 
crime there. But then it’s never hushed up. No one makes a se- 
cret of it : that is the thing that sets one’s blood up, don’t you know. 
Not for Torrance’s sake — who, so far as I can make out, was a cad 
— or poor Lady Car’s, to whom it’s something like a deliverance ” 

‘‘ Torrance ! ” cried Beaufort, with a gasp. Lady — Car ! Do 
you mean to say 

Then,” said Millefleurs, “ he never told you ? That is a curious 
piece of evidence. They do things straightforward in Denver City 
— not like that. He never spoke of an event which had made the 
country ring ” 

Torrance ! ” repeated Beaufort, bewildered. The world seemed 
all to reel about him. He gazed at his companion with eyes wide 
opened, but scarcely capable of vision. By-and-by he sat down 
abruptly on the nearest chair. He did not hear what Millefleurs 
was saying. Presently he turned to him, interrupting him uncon- 
sciously. ^‘Torrance!” he repeated ; ‘‘let there be no mistake. 
You mean the man — to whom Carry — Lady Caroline — was married ? ” 

Millefleurs fixed upon him his little, keen, black eyes. He re- 
called to himself tones and looks which had struck him at the mo- 
ment, on which he had not been able to put any interpretation. He 
nodded his head without saying anything. He was as keen afier any 
piece of human history as a hound on a scent. And now he was too 
much interested, too eager for new information, to speak. 

“And it happened,” said Beaufort, “on Thursday — on the day 
I arrived ? ” He drew a long breath to relieve his breast, then waved 
his hand. “ Yes ; if that is all, Erskine told me of it,” he said. 

“ You have something to do with them also, old fellow,”said Mille- 
fleurs, patting him on the shoulder. “ I knew there was something. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


257 


Come along and walk with me. I must see it out ; but perhaps we 
had better not meet again just now — Erskine and I, don’t you know. 
Perhaps I was rude. Come along ; it is your duty to get me out of 
harm’s way. Was there anything remarkable, by-the-way, in the 
fact that this happened just when you arrived ? ” 

Beaufort made no reply ; he scarcely heard, so violently were his 
pulses beating in his ears, so high was the tide of new life rising in 
his veins. Who can think of the perplexities, even the dangers, of 
another, when something unparalleled, something that stirs up his 
very being, has happened to himself? But he allowed himself to be 
led out into the open air — which was a relief — to the road leading to 
Lindores, from which they soon came in sight of Tinto, dominating 
the country round from its platform. 

Millefleurs stopped at the point where this first came in view, to 
point out how high it rose above the river, and how the path ascended 
through the overhanging woods. The Scaur itself was visible like a 
red streak on the face of the height. ‘‘You can see for yourself 
that horse or man who plunged over that would have little hope,” 
Millefleurs said. But Beaufort did not hear him. He stood and 
gazed, with a sense of freedom and possibility which went to his head 
like wine. Even the ordinary bonds of nature did not seem to hold 
him. His mind seemed to expand and float away over the wide 
country. Of all people in the world he was the last who could cross 
that distance actually, who could present himself to the lady there 
— the widow — the woman who had married Torrance. He could not 
offer his services or his sympathy to Carry ; he alone of all the world 
was absolutely shut out from her, more than a stranger ; and yet he 
stood gazing at the place where she was, feeling himself go out upon 
the air, upon the empty space, toward her. The sensation dizzied 
his brain and bewildered all his faculties. Millefleurs flowed on, 
making a hundred remarks and guesses, but Beaufort did not hear 
him. He would have said afterward that, as he never spoke, it was 
impossible he could have betrayed himself. But he betrayed him- 
self completely, and something more than himself, to the keen little 
eyes of Millefleurs. 

The day passed as days full of agitation pass — looking long, pro- 
tracted, endless — blank hours of suspense following the moment of 
excitement. Sir James Montgomery had gone away shaking his good 
gray head. He hiad not believed John Erskine’s story — that is, he 
believed that there was something suppressed. He had listened with 
the profoundest interest up to a certain point, but after that he had 
shaken his head. “You would have done better to tell me every- 
thing,” he said, as he went away. “ It would have been more wise — 
more wise.” 

He shook his head ; the very truth of the story went against it. 
There was so much that fitted into the hypothesis of the country- 
side. But then there came that stippressio veri which took all the 
value from the statement. Sir James went away fully determined 
to repeat the story in the most favorable way — to give the best repre- 
sentation of it possible ; but he was not satisfied. It was with a 


258 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


most serious face that he mounted his horse and rode away, shaking 
his head from time to time. '‘No, no,” he said to himself, “ that 
will never hold water — that will never hold water.” 

When this interview was over, John went back to his library and 
sat down in his usual chair with a sense of exhaustion and hopeless- 
ness which it would be difficult to describe. He had told his story 
as best he could, searching his memory for every detail ; but he had 
not been believed. He had gone on, growing impassioned in his 
self-defence — growing indignant, feeling himself powerless in face 
of that blank wall of incredulity, that steady incapacity to believe. 
“ Why should I tell you a lie ? ” he cried at last. “ Do not you 
see ? Have you not said that it was for my interest to tell you the 
truth ? ” 

“ I am not saying you have told a lie,” Sir James said, always 
shaking his head. “No, no — no lie — you will never be accused of 
that ! ” When he went away, he laid his heavy old hand on John’s 
shoulder. “ My poor lad, if you had only had the courage to open 
your heart all the way ! ” he said. 

John felt like a victim in the hands of the Inquisition. What 
did they want him to confess ? Half maddened, he felt as if a 
little more pressure, a few more twists of the screw, would make 
him accuse himself of anything, and confess all that they might 
require. 

He did not know how long he sat there, silent, doing nothing, not 
even thinking anything, alone with himself and the cloud that hung 
over his life, with a consciousness that all his movements were 
watched, that even this would be something against him, a proof of 
that remorse which belongs to guilt. And thus the slow moments, 
every one slower than the other, more full of oppression, rolled over 
him. Beaufort had disappeared, and did not return till late in the 
afternoon, when the twilight was falling. A few words only passed 
between them, and these related solely to Beaufort’s thoughts, not 
to Erskine’s. 

“ It is /ler husband who has been killed,” Beaufort said ; “ you 
never told me.” 

“ I could not tell you. It was too extraordinary ; it was an im^ 
piety,” John said. 

But neither did he ask himself what he meant, nor did Beaufort 
ask him. They said nothing more to each other, except such civili- 
ties as are indispensable when men eat together — for they dined all 
the same, notwithstanding the circumstances. In every crisis men 
must still dine ; it is the only thing that is inevitable, in trouble or 
in joy. 

And then the night followed. Night is horrible, yet it is consola- 
tory to those who are in suspense. John could not suppose that his 
trials were over, that nothing was to follow ; but by ten o’clock or 
so he said to himself, with relief, that nothing could happen to him 
to-night. Rolls, too, had evidently arrived at the same conclusion. 
He was heard to close and bolt the door ostentatiously while it was^ 
still early, and there was something in the very noise he made which , 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


259 


proclaimed the satisfaction with which he did it. But after this there 
was a long, black evening still, and hours of darkness to follow, which 
John did not know how to get through. 

Almost he had made up his mind to step out of the window at 
midnight, as Rolls had suggested, and withdraw from all this alarm 
and unjust suspicion. He did go out, and felt the cool freshness of 
the night caress him, hot and weary as he was, and thought with a 
sigh of distant places far away, where he might be safe from all these 
frets and passions. But he knew, if he did so, that his cause would 
be lost forever — that nothing could save him or his reputation. 
Perhaps in no case could anything save him ; but if he fled, his ruin 
was certain. What did it matter,” he thought, with bitterness, 
‘‘ that he had no witnesses to produce, that nobody would believe 
him? And if he were condemned, what would anyone care? 
His mother, indeed, would feel the shame, but more the shame than 
anything else ; and her name was not Erskine, nor that of any of her 
family. There was mo one who actually belonged to him in the 
wide world to whom his living or dying could be of any conse- 
quence.” 

As he stood alone with these bitter thoughts on the terrace, look- 
ing out upon the night, feeling the wind blow upon him from the 
fields of sleep, but no other trace in the darkness of the great wide 
landscape, which he knew lay stretched out like a map under cover 
of the clouds, something breathed another name in his ear. Ah! 
how did he know if she would care ? Sometimes he had thought so, 
hoped so, vaguely, with a tremor of alarmed delight. But if this 
shadow of crime came over him, would Edith stoop under it to say 
a word of consolation? Would she? could she? He stood still 
for a long time on the terrace with the lighted window and common 
life behind him, and all the secrets of the hidden night before, and 
asked himself what she would do ? That question, and not the other, 
was, after all, the great one in life. 

Next morning John awoke with the sense of a coming trial, which 
made his heart jump in his breast the moment he opened his eyes, 
though it was some time before he recollected what it was. But 
he did so at last, and accepted the certainty with outward calm. He 
came down-stairs with a steady conviction of what was about to hap- 
pen. To make up his mind to it was something. He sat down at the 
breakfast-table opposite to Beaufort — who was restless and uncom- 
fortable — with a calm which he felt to be fictitious, but which, 
nevertheless, was calm. 

‘‘ You must remember,” he said, Beaufort, whatever happens, 
that Dalriilzian is altogether at your command.” 

‘‘ What can happen ? ” Beaufort asked. 

I scarcely know. I can be taken away, I suppose, and exam- 
ined somewhere. You had better come with me. You are a 
barrister, and might help ; and, besides, it will always be for your 
advantage to get a little insight into Scotch law.” 

I might be of use, perhaps ; but in that case you must tell me 
everything,” Beaufort said. 


26 o 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


I ask no better,’’ said the young man ; and he repeated the 
narrative which he had told to Sir James Montgomery. “Don’t you 
disbelieve me. What I say to you is the whole, truth,” he said— 
everything that there is to say.” 

“ To disbelieve you would be impossible,” said Beaufort, which 
was the first gleam of consolation he had. They had a long con- 
sultation, some of which was surprised by Rolls, who went and came, 
busy about the door, with sombre and undisguised anxiety. 

Beaufort scouted at the idea that there could be any question of 
murder. “ Had you done as they supposed — seized the bridle in 
self-defence, and forced the horse a step too far — it would still only 
be accident,” he said — “at the very worst and bitterest, man- 
slaughter ; though I don’t see how it could bear even such a verdict 
as that. There is no occasion for unnecessary alarm. Anything 
more is impossible.” 

At this moment Rolls came in ; his countenance was lightened ; 
yet excited. “ There is one — that would like to speak to you, sir,” 
he said. 

There could be no doubt as to what the summons was. Rolls 
lingered behind when his master, with changing color, but self-pos- 
session, left the room. He came up to Beaufort stealthily. “ Sir,” 
he said — “ sir, WiWyoii be all true ? ” 

“ What ? Neither Mr. Erskine nor myself is in the habit of say- 
ing what is not true.” 

“ That’s no doubt the case. I’m saying nothing of him ; but you 
might have smoothed it off a bit, just to soothe him. Will it be all 
exact yon you said about manslaughter? Manslaughter is just cul- 
pable homicide, so far as I can see. And what’s the punishment for 
manslaughter (as you call it), if you’ll be so kind as say ? ” 

“ That depends on the gravity of the case, on the character of 
the judge, on many things. A year’s, two years’, imprisonment — 
perhaps only a month or two. I have known it but a day.” 

“And previous character would be taken into account?” said 
Rolls ; “ and aggravation, and — many a thing more ? ” 

“ No doubt; it is a thing upon which no certain rule can be ob- 
served. It maybe next to no harm at all, or it may be close upon 
murder. In such a case as this severity is very unlikely.” 

“ But it w 11 make a pairting,” said Rolls, solemnly, “ atween 
him and all he maist cares for. I’m not of the young maister’s mind 
myself. There are some would have set him far better, and in every 
way more suitable ; but what a man likes himself, it’s that will 
please him, and no what another man likes. It takes us a’ alang 
time,” said Rolls, shaking his head, “ to learn that. Many’s the one 
in my place would think here’s just a grand opportunity to pairt him 
and — them ; but you see I take his ain wishes into consideration.” 

The old servant spoke less to Beaufort than to himself; but the 
visitor was not accustomed to hold such colloquies with a family 
butler. He stared, then grew impatient, and disposed to resent the 
old fellow’s familiarity. The next moment the bell rung, and Rolls 
hurried away. Beaufort followed him out into the hall, where a man 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


261 

was standing, evidently on guard. John was at the door of 
the drawing-room, pale, but perfectly composed. ‘‘The dog-cart 
immediately,” he said to Rolls, and beckoned to Beaufort to come 
in. *‘1 am going before the sheriff-substitute about this matter,” he 
said. “ Beaufort, you will come with me. Mr. Granger, this is my 
friend Mr. Beaufort, an English barrister. He may go with me, I 
suppose, to watch over my interests? You see that what we were 
threatened with yesterday has come to pass.” 

“ I see, indeed,” said Beaufort, with sorrow and surprise, 
“ What is it that has to be done now ?” 

“ The sheriff will make no objection,” said the head of the 
county police, a plain, grave man, with regret in his face. “ It's 
my duty to take Mr. Erskine .before the sheriff. The result of the 
examination will be, let us hope, that he’ll come cannily home 
again, when all has been inquired into in due form. There is no 
reason to take a gloomy view. The sheriff will maybe find there’s 
no case ; and I’m sure I wish so with all my heart.” 

They all sat round with the utmost gravity to listen to this little 
speech. It was not a moment for light-heartedness. John sat be- 
tween the table and the door, in perfect self-command, yet very 
pale. Notwithstanding all the respect shown to him, and the good 
feeling from which he had everything to hope, the most innocent of 
men may be excused a feeling of dismay when he is, to all intents 
and purposes, arrested on a criminal charge, with issues to his good 
fame and social estimation, even if nothing more, which it is impos- 
sible to calculate. They sat in silence while the dog-cart was getting 
ready — a strange little company. 

After a while the officer, to lessen the embarrassment of the mo- 
ment and make everything pleasant, began to address various little 
remarks about the weather and other commonplace topics to the 
two gentlemen, such as, “ This is a very agreeable change from all 
the wet we’ve been having ; ” or, “ The news this morning is more 
satisfactory about that Afghan business.” The responses made, as 
may be supposed, were not very effusive. It was a relief when the 
dog-cart came to the door. Old Rolls stood and watched it go 
down the avenue with his countenance firmly set, and a stern reso- 
lution gathering about his mouth. Bauby stole out and stood by 
his side in the morning light, with her apron to her eyes, and her 
capacious bosom convulsed with sobs. “ Eh, that I should have lived' 
to see this day, and shame come to oor dwallin’ ! ” cried Bauby. 
“ And as bonny a young lad as ever steppit, and as good I ” 

“ Hold your peace, woman ! ” said her brother ; “ ye may see 
shame come nearer hame or a’s done.” 

“ Eh, Tammas, man 1 what do you ca’ nearer hame ? My heart’s 
just broken ; and what will his mammaw say ? ” the faithful creature 
cried. 

Meanwhile it might have been a party of pleasure that threaded 
its way among the trees, somewhat closely packed in the dog-cart, 
but no more than they might have been, starting for the moors. 
John Erskine drove himself to the examination which was to decide 


262 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


his fate, one way or another, with all the appearance of a perfectly 
free agent. The horse was fresh, the morning bright ; and though 
the four men were a heavy load, they skimmed along the country 
road as gayly as if all had been well. Tinto was visible for the 
greater part of the way. They passed by the very gates of Lin- 
dores. John had shaken himself together as he took the reins in his 
hand, and, with perhaps a little unconscious bravado, paused now 
and then to indicate a favorite point of view to his friend. But he 
had harder work in store. Just before they reached Dunearn, he 
perceived drawn up by the roadside Lady Lindores’s carriage, in 
which Edith was seated alone. Impossible to describe the feelings 
with which, as across a gulf of pain and trouble, the unfortunate 
young man, at this crisis of his fate, looked at the girl with whom, 
when he last saw her, he had been so near the edge of a mutual 
understanding. It w^as impossible for him now to do other than 
draw up by the side of the carriage to speak to her ; and there, in 
the hearing of the two men who formed his escort, and whose pres- 
ence was heavy on his heart, the following conversation took place. 
Edith looked up at him with a smile, and an expression of pleasure 
which brightened her whole aspect. She was in mourning, and 
somewhat pale. 

I am waiting for mamma, she said. One of her pensioners 
is ill in that cottage. I was glad of the chance of bringing her out 
for a little air. We are with poor Carry, you know.” 

How is Lady Caroline ? ” John asked. 

‘‘ Oh, well enough, when one considers all things,” said Edith, 
hastily ; and to escape that subject, which was not to be entered 
upon before strangers, she said, “You are going to Dunearn ? ” 

“ On painful business,” he said. “ I wonder if I may ask you 
one thing ? ” She looked up at him with a smile which sard much — 
a smile of trust and belief which might have encouraged any man to 
speak. Edith had no fear of what he might ask her. For John it 
was more difficult to command himself and his voice at that moment 
than at any previous one since his trial began. He cleared his throat 
with an effort, and his voice was husky. “ You will hear things said 
of me — that may make you turn from — an old friend altogether. I 
want you not to believe them — and tell Lady Lindores. Do not be- 
lieve them. It is not true.” 

Mr. Erskine, wdiat is it — what is it ? You may be sure I shall 
believe nothing against you — nor mamma neither. Is it — is it — ” 
her eyes fixed upon him anxiously and upon the stranger beside 
him, whose face was unknown to her, and who sat blank and pas- 
sive, like a servant, yet who was not a servant. Edith rose in the 
carriage in her great anxiety, and gazed as if she would have read a 
volume in John’s face. What it cost him to look at her and to keep 
a kind of smile on his, it would be hard to tell. 

“ I cannot enter into explanations now. I may not be able to do 
so soon. Only — tell Lady Lindores.” 

She held out her hand to him, which he stooped, to touch— it w'as 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 263 

all he could do — and once more gave him an anxious, tender smile. 
“ You may trust both mamma and me,” she said. 

And in another moment, so it seemed, the dog-cart stopped 
again. John went over the streets of Dunearn like a man in a dream 
— in a sort of exquisite anguish, a mingled sweetness and bitterness 
such as never went into words. Their looks seemed to cling to- 
gether, as, with a start, the horse went on ; and now they stopped 
again and got down^ — for a very different encounter. Even now, 
however, John’s progress was to be interrupted. Some one called to 
him. as he was about to go into the sheriff’s court in the little Town- 
house of Dunearn, Is that you, John Erskine ? and what has brought 
you here ? ” in peremptory tones. He turned round quickly. It was 
Miss Barbara in her pony-carriage, which Nora was driving. The 
old lady leaned across the young one and beckoned to him with some 
impatience. Come here ! What are you doing in Dunearn with- 
out coming to me ? It’s true I’m out, and you would not have found 
me ; but Janet would have understoood to be prepared for your 
luncheon. And what’s your business in the Town-house this fine 
morning, and with strange company?” Miss Barbara said. She 
cast a keen glance at the man, who stood aside respectfully 
enough, and yet, backed by his assistant, kept a watchful eye on 
John. 

I am afraid I cannot wait to tell you now. It is not pleasant 
business,” John said. 

Come round here,” said the old lady, imperiously. Can I 
keep on skreighing to you before all the town ? Come round here.” 
Her keen eyes took in the whole scene : John’s glance at his grave 
companion, the almost imperceptible gesture with which that person 
made way for him. Miss Barbara’s perceptions were keen. She 
gripped her nephew by the arm. ‘‘John Erskine, have ye done 
anything to bring ye within the power of the law ?” 

“ Nothing,” he said firmly, meeting her eye. 

“ Then what does that man mean glowering at you ? Lord guide 
us, what is it, boy ? It cannot be money, for money has none of 
these penalties now.” 

“ It is not money — nor anything worth a thought.” 

“ Mr. Erskine,” said the officer, civilly, “ the sheriff is waiting.’^ 
And after that there was no more to be said. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Rolls went up-stairs and dressed himself in his best — his 
“ blacks,” which he kept for going to funerals and other solemnities 
— not the dress in which he waited at table and did his ordinary 
business. The coat, with its broad, square tails, gave him an ap- 
pearance something between that of a respectable farmer and a 
parish minister— a little too solemn for the one, too secular for the 


264 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


other ; and to show that he was his own man,” and for to-day at 
least no man’s servant, he enveloped his throat in a large black silk 
neckerchief, square in shape, and folded like a substantial bandage 
with a little bow in the front. His forehead was lined with thought. 
When he had finished his toilet he opened the large wooden “ kist ” 
which stood in a corner of his room, and was the final receptacle 
of all his worldly goods. Out of that he took a blue-spotted hand- 
kerchief, in which a pocket-book was carefully wrapped up, and took 
from it a few somewhat dirty pound-notes. Then restoring the 
pocket-book, he locked the kist carefully, and went down-stairs with 
the key — a very large one — in his hand. This he gave to Bauby, 
who still hung about the door with her apron to her eyes. You 
should go ben to your work, my woman,” said Rolls, and no make 
the worst of what’s happened : in a’ likelihood the master will be 
back afore the dinner’s ready.” 

Do you think that, Tammas ? do you really tliink that ? ” 
cried Bauby, brightening up, and showing symptoms of an inclination 
to cry for joy as she had done for sorrow. 

‘‘I’m no saying what I think. I’m thinking mony things beyond 
the power o’ a woman-person to faddom,” said Rolls, solemnly. 
“ And if the maister should be back, it’s real possible I mayna be 
back. You’ll just behave comformably, and put forrit Marge t. If 
she wasna so frightened, she’s no a bad notion at a’ of waiting at 
table. And if there’s ony question where I am, or what’s become of 


“ Oh, Tammas, what will I say? It will be the second time in a 
week. He’ll no like it,” cried Bauby, diverted from one trouble to 
another. The absence of her brother when the dinner was ready 
was almost as extraordinary as her master’s conveyance away to un- 
known dangers by the functionaries of the law. 

“ If he’s here to be angry, a’ will be well,” said Rolls, grimly; 
and then he handed her the key. “ If there should be any question 
about me, when I’m no here to answer for myself, you’ll inform 
whoever it concerns that the kist is yours and everything in it, in 
proof of which you’ll produce the key. That’s no to say but what 
you’ll respect the bits of things in it, and hand me back possession 
when I come, soon or late,” said Rolls. “ You’ll mind what I say to 
you, Bauby. It’s yours in the one case, but no in the other. You’ll 
take possession if there is ony other claimant ; but me being back, 
you’ll respect my rights.” 

“ I wuss I would ken what you meant first,” said Bauby, gazing 
at him wistfully. Rolls had an air of satisfaction on his face for the 
first time : he was pleased to have puzzled her. His face relaxed 
almost into a smile as he said, “ According to a’ probabilities, you’ll 
soon understand that.” 

With these words he set out from the hall-door, walking very de- 
liberately, and crushing the pebbles under his feet at every step. 
He had taken his best silk umbrella, which, loosened from its habi- 
tual folds, and used as a stick, made a sort of flapping accompani- 
ment to his progress, like a large bird walking by him. As he 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


265 


turned from the door the solemnity of his aspect returned. He 
walked slowly, thinking as he went — thinking so profoundly that he 
scarcely saw Peggy at the lodge, and passed her, taking no notice of 
her in the gravity of his preoccupation. She said afterward that it 
was awfu’ evident he had something on his mind. She told Jean 
Tamson, who was in the lodge at the moment — come for a crack, 
and talking of nothing else but this very subject — I woiildna 
wonder,” she said, ‘‘but Mr. Rolls kens more about it than any of 
us.” This at least was what she informed the world she had said to 
her gossip when all was known. 

It was four miles to D unearn ; but old Rolls was a steady, good 
walker, with no irregularity about him. Every step he took was just 
of the same length as the step before. Yard for yard, he did his 
four miles in the regulated time, neither shorter nor longer. When 
he arrived at the Town -house there was a little flutter about the 
door as of people dispersing, but there had not been any number of 
people ; and though the rumor of what had transpired had begun to 
blow about the place, there were not, as yet, many gazers. By-and- 
by, as he stood outside, his master came out, with one of the emis- 
saries of the morning close by him, and Beaufort behind. John 
Erskine was pale ; but there was a sort of smile on his face — a smile 
which had no pleasure in it, but some contempt, and that sort of 
outward looking to heaven and earth, with the head held high, and 
the nostrils somewhat dilated, which is so often the aspect of a man 
unjustly accused. He was making light of it to himself — persuading 
himself that it was nothing, and meant nothing. He saw Rolls 
standing by, and waved his hand to him. “ What, have you walked 
all this way,” he said, “old Truepenny” — with something of the 
same levity of despair which dictated the same words to Hamlet — 
“ to see the last of me ? ” 

“ It’s not come to that, sir, I hope,” said Rolls, with a seriousness 
which was as solemn as if what John had said was real. The young 
man laughed. 

“You will pack my portmanteau and send it after me ; I suppose 
I may be allowed that ? ” he said. The officer who was in attendance 
bowed his head. The people about gathered round, staring at John 
with too much surprise to express any other emotion ; and by-and-by 
the party drove off again, nobody apparently divining exactly what 
it all meant. There were a number of petty cases to be tried by the 
sheriff, who was in the Town-house, as it was called, and as many 
different interests as there were loungers about. Rolls went in with 
hesitating steps after his master had disappeared. The old man had 
come, in full expectation of the event which had happened ; but fact 
is always different from anticipation. When he saw what he had 
only looked for, the effect upon him was something overwhelming. 
He stood staring and gaping in the little crowd which gradually drew 
together, realizing only after it was over what had taken place before 
their eyes. 

“ What’s wrang with the young maistcr, Mr. Rolls ? ” said one of 
the by-standers. 


12 


266 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


‘‘ Let me be ! ” cried the old man, shaking himself free ; and he 
went into the Town-house with tottering steps. He had intended 
taking certain bold and immediate steps, carrying out the project he 
had been framing in his mind ; but his nerves were shaken when the 
moment came. The law terrified him. If his master, in all the 
strength and confidence of his youth, was thus peremptorily dealt 
with, what aggravations might not he, an old and humble individual 
— nothing but a servant — look for ? He was cowed. He stole up to 
an attendant and made faltering inquiries. What wall they have 
settled about yon case ? ” he said. 

About what case ? — the sheep-lifting, or the unlawfu’ wounding, 
or the robbery at Willyam TamsoiTs 

Nane o’ thae things — nane o’ time things,” said old Rolls. It’s 
about young Mr. Erskine of Dalrulzian.” 

Oh, ay, ay,” said the attendan-t,. shaking his head ; that’s very 
serious. The circumstances a’ point to some agent mair than acci- 
dent — that’s what the sherra says, and he canna see his way to dis- 
charging the pannel.” 

The pannel !* he’s nae pannel ! mind what you’re saying,” cried 
Rolls. 

Well, maybe that’s going owre fast. I would.say the gentleman 
under suspicion. He maun just bide the result of a mair formal ex- 
amination — that’s a’ I can tell ye. I have nae time to enter into 
particulars,” the official said. 

Rolls, who had meant such heroic things, turned away tremulously. 
He went out again, scarcely knowing where he was going, into the 
streets of Dunearn. There everybody looked at him w’ith curious 
eyes. The town had at last become conscious of wEat had happen- 
ed ; from a public-house in the environs a stone had been thrown at 
John Erskine as he went past, and hootings had risen on his path. 
This roused the population fully, and now the streets were full of 
groups discussing the matter. Torrance, as has been said, was 
popular in hiS way, especially now in that warmth of pity and charity 
which follows a sudden and unexpected death; and John Erskine 
was comparatively unknown. The tide was strongly against him as 
a semi-foreigner — a man who had come from abroad.” 

He’ll find here that gentle and simple must keep the laws alike,” 
said one. A man daurna ride rough-shod over his fellows here.” 

Old Rolls heard the growl of popular excitement, and it alarmed 
him still more. If it was me, they would tear me in bits,” he said 
to himself. His alarm on this point, as much as his original inten- 
tion, drovQ him in at Mr. Monypenny’s door, which was in his way. 
He was afraid of being recognized as the butler at Dalrulzian (^^for 
everybody kens me,” he said to himself, with mingled pride and 
panic), and he was anxious to consult the man of business” who 
had Dalrulzian’s estate in his hands. 

Mr. Monypenny was out, and Rolls requested permission to sit 
down and wait. He had a long time of quiet to think over his plan 
again, and he did think it over, and recovered his courage. After a 

^Scoiice, accused. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


267 


time Mrs. Monypenny, hearing who it was, sent to request him to 
have some cold beef in the kitchen — an offer of which Rolls availed 
himself at once. ‘‘For what is the use of punishing yourself,” he 
said. “ A man’s more qualified for everything when he has eaten 
his dinner.” He was very serious, and unlike his usual cheerfully 
communicative mood, in Mr. Monypenny’s kitchen. The maids did 
not know what had come over him. To have such a grand subject 
'of discourse as his master’s arrest, and yet to be so silent, struck 
them with astonishment ; but they, too, remarked his perturbed 
countenance afterward, and said to one another, “ I told you there 
was mair in him than met the eye.” 

Meanwhile Miss Barbara and her young companion had been 
driving up and down in the pony-carriage in a state of great excite- 
ment. They had passed the Town-house half a dozen times, always 
looking for the re-appearance of John ; but he, as was to be expected, 
had come out and gone away in the interval between. Miss Barbara 
had maintained during the whole time a lively monologue, scarcely 
interrupted by her young companion. “ I’ve heard what they dared 
to say,” Miss Barbara cried ; “ as if one of my family would stoop to 
soil his fingers with any Tinto of them all ! What were the Tor- 
rances but bonnet-lairds till old Torrance married the railway man’s 
daughter? But I never thought they would have dared to do any- 
thing against an Erskine. Times are changed. (Go round by the 
Stone Bridge, Nora ; it’s an easier road for the pony.) What would 
my father have said if he had heard a descendant of his evened with 
one of that race ? That’s what your Radicalism comes to.” 

“ But death is the same, whether it comes to a saint or — a bully ; 
and life has to be protected,” said Nora, fired with political ardor. 

“ Life — and death. They’re grand words to use : a drunken man 
falling over a steep bank that it was the wonder of the whole country- 
side he had not gone over years and years before.” 

Nora did not say any more. She was not so warm a partisan as 
Miss Barbara’s companion ought to have been. She drove along 
quietly, taking no farther part in the talk, which the old lady main- 
tained alone. “ How can I go into my peaceful house and eat my 
comfortable dinner, not knowing but my own flesh and blood may 
be shut up in jail? ” she said. Then she added quickly, “ There’s 
that lad, young Rintoul. I’m not fond of any of his family; but I 
suppose he’s a gentleman. He’ll go in and ask what has happened. 
(Fast — to your right hand, Nora. Now draw up.) He sees what I 
mean. Lord Rintoul,” added Miss Barbara, “ I have a favor to ask 
of you. You may have heard my nephew John Erskine’s name ban- 
died about these late days. He’s been in the Town-house before 
the sheriff and the procurator-fiscal this hour and a half or more. 
It’s not for me to ask the town-bodies about what has happened. 
Will you go and bring me word ? ” 

Rintoul stood silent for a moment before he made any reply. 
Her voice seemed to have called him from painful reflections of his 
own, the chain of which he could not in a moment break. He gave 
her a half-bewildered look, then turned to Nora, who looked at "him 


268 


THE LADIES LIN DO RES. 


more gently, with sympathetic eyes. How haggard he looked, and 
worn I — he who had been so ruddy and manly, only too much flesh 
and blood, almost too little inclination to be moved by emotion or 
sentiment. Was all this because of the sudden death of his brother- 
in-law, a man for whom he cared nothing ? Nora was extraordinarily 
impressed by RintouPs changed appearance. Miss Barbara, pre- 
occupied by her own anxieties, scarcely noticed him at all. 

‘‘ In the Town-house with the sheriff! What does that mean ? ” 

I forgot you were English,” said Miss Barbara, with a touch of 
contempt. It means some examination of witnesses anent the 
death of Pat Torrance, your brother-in-law. What my nephew 
should have to do wkh it I cannot tell you. It’s just that I would 
have you inquire.” 

He can have nothing to do with it,” said Rintoul ; and then he 
stopped short, and the momentary animation died out of his face. 
He shivered as he stood in the sunshine, which was as warm as Sep- 
tember ever is in Scotland. It must be a m'istake ; we have heard 
nothing of this,” he said. I am sure Carry — would be averse to 
any fuss. It was such a thing for her that there was no coroner’s in- 
quest. I made sure we were all safe. You must be mistaken,” he 
said. 

^‘Lord Rintoul,” said Nora, who was given to opposition, 
‘‘ though there is no coroner’s inquest, there must be justice ; and if 
they think Mr. Erskine has anything to do with it ” 

He has nothing to do with it,” said Rintoul, with petulant im- 
patience. Miss Barbara stretched her hand over Nora to grasp his, 
but this gesture seemed to drive him back into himself. He with- 
drew a little from the side of the pony-carriage, and made a pretence 
of not seeing the old lady’s outstretched hand. Miss Barbara was 
shocked, and gave him a curious look; but she^was not prepared 
for disrespect, and did not expect it. She went on more eagerly 
than before. 

“ And here I am helpless,” she said. I cannot go in myself. 
I will not send Nora. Will you do my errand. Lord Rintoul? Bring 
me word, not here, but to my house. I am going home.” 

He gave a little bow of assent, and stood on the pavement looking 
after them as they drove aw^ay. He stood longer than was necessary 
for that, till they had disappeared round the corner of the High 
Street, till the children about — of whom there was always a large 
supply in Dunearn — began to gape at him with expectations of amuse- 
ment. ^‘Look at the man glowering frae him,” these spectators 
cried, and a small pebble tumbled along the flags where he stood — 
a harmless experiment to see if there was any fun in him. He did 
not notice this, nor any other outside occurrence, but after a while 
got slowly under way again, as if the operation was difficult, and 
went on to the Town-house. When he got there he went in reluc- 
tantly, with evident disinclination. The attendant who had talked 
to Rolls made way for him respectfully. The other people about 
opened the doors and took off their hats to the young potentate. A 
small case whicli was going on at the time was even suspended while 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


269 


the sheriff, not nearly so great a man, answered his lordship’s ques- 
tions in his own person. Yes, there has been an examination,” 
the sheriff said. The circumstances are very suspicious. *1 have 
thought it best to order that young Erskine should be detained till 
there can be a more complete investigation. That, it is to be hoped, 
will clear the matter up ; but if not ” 

Lord Rintoul’s fair and ruddy countenance was dark with anxiety 
and pain. ‘‘You cannot mean,” he said, “ that you believe Ers- 
kine ” 

“ 1 believe nothing but what there is evidence for,” the sheriff 
said. “We are not men of theories, Lord Rintoul. Experience 
shows every day that men do the most unlikely things. I hear he’s 
shown an animus — and there are two or three points very strange. 
I saw it my duty to give orders that he should be detained ” 

“ You have sent him to prison, do you mean?” There was a 
sharp tone as if of personal anguish in Rintoul’s voice. “ But you’ll 
admit him to bail ? My father, I, Millefleurs, any gentleman in 
the country ” 

“ Will be his bail ? I doubt if it’s a bailable offence : but if Lord 
Lindores were willing to do that, no doubt it would have a good effect. 
However, nothing can be done before the investigation,” said the 
sheriff ; “a day or two will do the young man no harm.” 

This was all he could elicit. The sheriff was a man who had a great 
idea of his office, and it was not often that he had a case so interest- 
ing and important. The attendants thought Lord Rintoul had been 
drinking, as he stumbled out. He went along the quiet street with 
an uncertain step, now and then taking off his hat that the air might 
refresh him. He, too, stopped at Mr. Monypenny’s door, as Rolls 
had done a very short time before. It was afternoon now, and the 
shadows were lengthening as he reached Miss Barbara’s house. 
What a sunny glimpse there was from door to door, across the little 
hall to the garden, where the brightness of the autumn flowers made 
a flush of color ! Rintoul saw a figure against the light which was 
not Miss Barbara’s. There was in him a forlorn desire for consola- 
tion. “ Don’t tell Miss Barbara I am here just yet,” he said hastily 
to the maid, and opened the glass-door, beyond which Nora stood 
among all the geraniums and mignonette. There was no agitation 
about her. She was not sufficiently interested in John Erskine to be 
deeply troubled by the idea of annoyance to him as his old aunt was, 
or alarmed by a passing shadow upon his name. She was serene 
and calm in this quiet world of flowers and greenness where no 
trouble was. She welcomed him with a smile. “ Miss Barbara is 
very anxious,” she said. “ She has gone up-stairs to rest, but I am 
to let her know when you come.” 

“ Wait a little,” he said, glad of the interval; you are not 
anxious ? ” 

“ Not so much. Of course I am interested in my friends’ friends, 
but I don’t know very much of Mr. Erskine,” said Nora, unable to 
divest herself altogether of the imaginative offence that lay between 
John and her. “And it cannot do him much harm, can it ? It will 


270 


THE LADIES LINDORESi 


only be disagreeable— till the facts are known. Young men,” she 
said, wkh a smile, have a right to have something unpleasant hap- 
pen to them now and then, they have so much the best of it in other 
ways.” 

‘‘ Do you think so? ” he said, with a seriousness which put her 
levity to shame. To be sent to prison — to have a stigma put upon 
you perhaps to be tried for your life ! that is rather worse than 
mere unpleasantness.” 

Nora was greatly impressed, not only by the gravity of what he 
said, but the air with which he said it. “ It surely cannot be so bad 
as that : and he — is innocent. Lord Rintoul ? ” 

I have no doubt of it,” cried Rintoul, eagerly— ‘‘ no doubt of it. 
If there is any one to blame, it is some one whom most likely no- 
body suspects. What would you think of a man who had done it, 
and yet said nothing, but let John Erskine suffer for his fault ? ” 

‘‘ I do not believe,” said Nora, like Desdemona, that there 
could be any such man. It is impossible. You think too badly of 
human nature. How can you suppose another would do what you 
know you would not do yourself? Oh no, never ! Lord Rintoul—” 
She paused after this little outburst, arid, drawing a step nearer to 
him, asked, in a low an^ horror-stricken tone, Do you really think 
that poor Mr. Torrance was — murdered ? ” 

‘‘ No, no ! ” he cried, almost violently — no, no ! ” He stopped 
short, with a dryness in his throat, as if he could not speak ; then 
resumed, in a quieter tone— ‘‘ but I think in all likelihood there was, 
as people imagine, a quarrel, a scuffle— and that somebody — took 
hold of the mare’s bridle ” 

Some tramp, no doubt,” said Nora, sympathetically, much 

affected by his emotion, who perhaps doesn’t even know ” 

“ That is it,” said Rintoul, eagerly — ‘Lwho perhaps never dreamed 
at the moment. And even if he knows now, such a man might 
think, as you did, that it would come to nothing with Erskine. I 
believe it will come to nothing — a day, or two days, in prison.” 

But if it should turn out more serious,” said Nora, even a 
tramp would give himself up, surely — would never let an innocent 
man suffer ? ” 

''We must hope so, at least,” said Lord Rintoul. His counte- 
nance had never relaxed all this time. It was almost solemn, set, 
and rigid— the muscles about his mouth immoving. " There should 
not be any question about right, and wrong, I know,” he said, " but 
such a man might say to himself— he might think— Young Erskine 
is a gentleman, and I’m only a common fellow — they will treat him 

better than they would treat me. He might say to himself ” 

" I cannot believe it,” cried Nora. " In such a case there 
could be no question of what any one would do. It is like ABC. 
What ! let another man suffer for something you have done ? Oh 
no, no — even in the nursery one knows better than that ! ” 

I don’t think,” said Rintoul, " that you ever can understand all 
the excuses a man will make for himself till you’ve been in the same 
position. Things look so different, when you’ve done it, from what 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


271 


they do when some one else has done it, There are so many things 
to be taken into consideration. Punishment is not the same to all ; 
it might ruin one, and not do much harm to another. A man might 
feel justified, or at least there would be excuses for him, if he let 
another bear the punishment which would not hurt him much, but 
would be destructive to himself. Of course it would be his business 
to make it up somehow.” 

‘‘Lord Rintoul, this is dreadful doctrine!” said Nora; “if it 
were carried out, then you might do any wickedness you wished, 
and hire somebody to be punished instead of you.” She laughed 
half nervously, shaking off the graver turn the conversation had 
taken. “ But this is absurd,” she said ; “ of course you don’t mean 
that. I think I know what you mean ; but I must not delay longer, 
I must tell Miss Barbara.” 

“ Don’t disturb her now,” said Rintoul, eagerly. “ Besides, I 
really have not time. If you would say that it is unfortunately true 
— that Erskine is — detained till there can be a full investigation. 
I am hurrying off to get bail for him — for of course they must 
accept bail — and it will only be for a few days. The investigation — 
at which we shall all be examined,” he said, with a nervous tremor — 
“ will clear up everything, I hope.” 

“ I hope so, with all my heart,” said Nora, waving her hand to 
him as he hurried away. Rintoul had reached the gar, den-door on 
his way out, when he suddenly paused, and came back to her and 
took that hand, holding it for a moment between his own. 

“ And this is very hard upon me,” he said, incoherently ; “it 
gives me a great deal of misery. Feel for me — stand by me ! Will 
you, Nora ? I don’t care for the rest, if you ” 

And he wrung her hand almost violently, dropped it, and hurried 
away. The girl stood looking after him with wonder and dismay, 
and yet with a gush of a different kind of feeling, which filled her 
heart with a confusing warmth. “ A great deal of misery I ” Was 
it the tenderness of his heart for his sister, for the unfortunate man 
who had been summoned out of the world so abruptly — though he 
did not love him — and for his friend who was unjustly accused, 
which made Rintoul say this ? But anyhow, Nora was not capable 
of resisting such an appeal. Poor Rintoul ! though he did not show 
it to any one, how tender he was, how full of sympathy! John 
Erskine (against whom she could not help entertaining a little 
grudge) died out of her mind altogether. She was so much more 
sorry for the other, who felt it so deeply, though it was not his 
concern. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

Beaufort drove home on that eventful afternoon by himself. 
He had left his friend in the county jail, in a state in which surprise 
was still perhaps the predominant feeling. John had said little on 


272 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


the way, except to point out, with something which perhaps bore 
the character of bravado, the itew features of the landscape beyond 
Dunearn. ‘‘It is an opportunity for you to see a little more of the 
country,” he said, with a smile. Something of the same indignant 
amusement which had been his first apparent sensation on hearing 
the sheriff’s decision was still in his manner now. He held his head 
high and a little thrown back, his nostrils were dilated, his eyes more 
widely open and alert than usual, and a smile, in which there was a 
little scorn, was upon his face. Those who did not know John or 
human nature might have thought him unusually triumphant, excited 
by some occurrence which enhanced instead of humiliated his pride. 
“ I cannot tell you how surprised I am to see you here, Mr. Erskine,” 
said the governor of the jail, with consternation. 

“ You cannot be more surprised than I am,” said John. He 
gave his orders about the things he wanted in the same tone, taking 
no notice of the anxious suggestion that it would only be for a few 
days. He was too deeply offended with fate to show it. He only 
smiled, and said, “ The first step is so extraordinary that I prefer 
not to anticipate the next.” 

“ But they must allow you bail,” said Beaufort ; “ that must be 
my first care.” 

John laughed. He would not condescend to be anxious. “ Or 
hang me,” he said ; “ the one just as sensible as the other.” 

Beaufort drove away with the strangest feelings, guiding his 
friend’s horse along the road with which he was so little acquainted, 
but from which presently he saw the great house of Tinto on one side, 
and on the other the towers of Lindores appearing from among the 
trees. How hard it was to keep his thoughts to John, with these 
exciting objects on either side of him ! This country road, which all 
its length kept him in sight of the big castellated front of Tinto, with 
its flag half-mast high — the house in which she was who had been his 
love and promised bride — seemed to Beaufort to have become the 
very thread of his fate. That Carry should be there within his 
reach, that she should be free and mistress of herself, that there 
should be even a certain link of connection which brought him nat- 
urally once more within the circle of her immediate surroundings, 
was so wonderful that everything else seemed of less importance. 
He could not disengage his thoughts from this. He was not a man in 
whose mind generosity was the first or even a primary quality, and 
it is so difficult to think first of another when our own affairs are 
at an exciting stage. The only step which he could think of for 
John’s advantage confused him still more, for it was the first direct 
step possible to put him once more in contact with Carry. He 
turned up the avenue of Lindores with a thrill of sensation which 
penetrated his whole being. He was relieved, indeed, to know that 
the ladies were not there — that he would not at least be exposed to 
their scrutiny, and to the self-betrayal that could scarcely fail to fol- 
low ; but the very sight and name of the house was enough to move 
him almost beyond his errand. The last rays of the sunset had gone 
out, and the autumn evening began to darken by the time he got 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


273 


there. He went on like a man in a dream, feeling the very air about 
him tremulous with his fate, although he made an attempt to think of 
John first. How could he think of anything but of Carry, who was 
free ? or recollect anything except that- the mistress of this house had 
allowed him to call her mother ; and* that even its lord, before he was 
its lord, had not refused to permit the suggestion of a filial relation- 
ship ? There was a carriage already standing before the door when 
he drove up, but his mind was by this time too much excited to be 
moved by any outside circumstance. But when he stepped into the 
hall upon his mission, and, following the servant into the presence 
of Lord Lindores, suddenly found himself face to face with the two 
ladies going out, Beaufort’s agitation was extreme. They were re- 
turning to Tinto, after a day’s expedition in search of those things ” 
which seem always necessary in every domestic crisis. 

Lady Lindores recognized him with a start and cry of amaze- 
ment. ‘‘Mr. Beaufort — you here!” she cried, unable to contain 
herself. She added, “ at such a time ! ” in a lower tone, with the 
self-betrayal to which impulsive persons are always liable, and with 
so much indignation mingled with her astonishment, that a man in 
full possession of his faculties might have drawn from it the most 
favorable auguries. 

But Beaufort, to do him justice, was not cool enough for this. He 
said, hurriedly, “ I came on Thursday — I knew nothing. I came — 
because it was impossible to help it.” 

Edith had come close up behind her mother and grasped her 
arm, half in support, half in reproof. “ You knew Mr. Beaufort 
was coming, mamma ; why should you be surprised ? ” she said, 
with a certain disdain in the tone with which she named him. 

Edith was unreasonable, like all the rest. She would have had 
him throw away everything rather than come here to interfere with 
Carry’s comfort, notwithstanding that her own father had invited 
him to come, and though it had been explained to her that all his 
prospects depended upon the favor of the duke. Lord Millefleur’s 
gracious papa. Her idea was that a man should have thrown away 
all that rather than put himself in a false position, or expose a 
woman whom he had once loved to embarrassment and pain. They 
were all unreasonable together, but each in his or her characteristic 
way. After these first utterances of agitation, however, they all 
stopped short and looked at each other in the waning light, and 
awoke to a recollection of the ordinary conventionalities which in 
such circumstances are so great a relief to everybody concerned. 

“ We must not detain you, Mr. Beaufort,” Lady Lindores said; 
“ you were going to my husband — or Lord Millefleurs — who is still 
here.” 

The last four words were said with a certain significance, as if 
intended for a hint — persuade him, they seemed to say, that this is 
not a time to remain here. “ It is getting late, mother,” said Edith, 
with a touch of impatience. 

“ One moment. Lady Lindores. I must tell you why I have 
come : not for myself — to ask help for Erskine, whom I have Just 
12* 


274 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


left in custody, charged with having occasioned somehow — I can’t 
tell you how — the death of — the late accident — your son-in-law,” 
Beaufort stammered out. 

The next moment he seemed to be surrounded by them, by their 
cries of dismay, by their anxious questions. A sharp, keen pang of 
offence was the first feeling in Beaufort’s mind — that John should be 
so much more interesting to them than he was ! It gave him a 
shock even in the excitement of the moment. 

‘‘ This was what he meant” — ^he could at last hear Edith dis- 
tinctly after the momentary babel of mutual exclamations — “ this 
was what he meant : that we might hear something, which he might 
not be able to explain, but that we were to believe in him — you and 
I, mamma.” 

“Of course we believe in him,” cried Lady Lindores ; “but 
something else must be done, something more. Come this way, 
Mr. Beaufort ; Lord Lindores is here.” 

She called him Mr. Beaufort without any hesitation now — not 
pausing, as she had done before, with the more familiar name on 
her lips. It was John who was in the foreground now — ^John who, 
perhaps, for anything they knew, had caused the event which had 
put them in mourning. With a whimsical mortification and envy, 
Beaufort exaggerated in his own mind the distress caused by this 
event. For the moment he looked upon it as a matter of real loss 
and pain to this unthinking family, who showed such interest in the 
person who, perhaps — But the sentiment did not go so far as to 
iDe put into words ; it resolved itself into a half-indignant wonder at 
the interest taken in John, and sense of injured superiority on his own 
account — he, of whom no man could say that he had been instru- 
mental in causing the death even of a dog. 

Lady Lindores led the way hastily into the library, where three 
figures were visible against the dim light in the window as the others 
came in. Lord Lindores, seated in his chair ; little Millefleurs, 
leaning against the window., half turned toward the landscape ; and 
in front of the light, with his back to it, Rintoul, who was speaking. 
“ With you as bail,” he was saying, “ he may be set free to-night. 
Don’t let him be a night in that place.” 

“ Are you speaking of John Erskine, Robin, my dear boy ? Oh, 
not a night, not an hour ! Don’t lose any time. It is too dreadful, 
too preposterous. Your father will go directly. Take the carriage, 
which is at the door. If we are a little late, what does it matter ? ” 
said Lady Lindores, coming forward, another shadow in the dim 
light. Millefleurs turned half round, but did not come away from 
the window on which he was leaning. He was somewhat surprised 
too, very curious, perhaps a trifle indignant, to see all this fuss made 
about Erskine. He drew up his plump little person, altogether in- 
different to the pronounced manifestation of all its curves against 
the light, and looked beyond Lady Lindores to Edith — Edith, who 
hurried after her mother, swift and silent, as if they were one being, 
moved by the same unnecessary excitement. Millefleurs had not 
been in a comfortable state of mind during these last days. The 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


275 


delay irritated him ; though Lord Lindores assured him that all was 
well, he could not feel that all was well. Why should not Edith see 
him, and give him his answer? She was not so overwhelmed with 
grief for that brute. What did it mean ? And now, though she 
could not see him on such urgent cause, she was able to interest her- 
self this eager way on behalf of John Erskine ! Millefleurs was very 
tolerant, and, when the circumstances demanded it, could be mag- 
nanimous, but he thought he had reason for offence here. 

There was a momentary pause — enough to show that Lord Lin- 
dores did not share the feeling so warmly expressed. I am sur- 
prised that you should all be so inconsiderate,” he said ; you at 
least, Rintoul, who generally show more understanding. I have un- 
derstood that Erskine had laid himself under suspicion. Can you 
imagine that I, so near a connection of poor Torrance, am the right 
person to interfere on behalf perhaps of his — murd — that is to say, 
of the cause — of the instrument ” 

It is impossible ! ” cried Edith, with such decision that her soft 
voice seemed hard — impossible ! Can any one suppose for a mo- 
ment ” 

Be silent, Edith ! ” cried her father. 

Why should she be silent ? ” said Lady Lindores. Robert, 
think what you are saying. We have all known John Erskine for 
years. He is as incapable as I am— as unlikely as any one of us 
here. Because you are so near a connection, is not that the very 
reason why you should interfere ? For God’s sake, think of that 
poor boy in prison — in prison ! and lose no time.” 

I will do it, mother,” said Rintoul. 

Oh, God bless you, my boy ! I knew you were always right at 
heart.” 

Rintoul,” said his father, enthusiasm of this sort is new in 
you. Let us take a little common-sense into the question. In the 
first place, nothing can be done to-night — that. is evident. Then 
consider a moment : what does ‘in prison ’ mean ? In the govern- 
or’s comfortable rooms, where he will be as well off as at home ; and 
probably — for he is not without sense — will be taking the most rea- 
sonable view of the matter. He will know perfectly well that if he 
deserves it he will find friends ; in short, that we are all his friends, 
and that everybody will be too glad to assist him— as soon as he has 
cleared himself ” 

“ As. soon as heVants it no longer,” cried Lady Lindores. 

“ My dear, you are always violent ; you are always a partisan,” 
said her husband, drawing back his chair a little, with the air of hav- 
ing ended the discussion ; and there was a pause — one of those 
breathless pauses of helplessness, yet rebellion, which make sick the 
hearts of women. Lady Lindores clasped her hands together with a 
despairing movement. “ This is the curse of our life ! ” she cried. 
“ I can do nothing ; I cannot go against your father, Edith, and yet 
I am neither a fool nor a child. God help us women ! we have to 
stand by, whatever wrong is done, and submit — submit. That is all 
that is left for us to do ” 


276 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


‘‘Submit! ” Edith said. She was young and strong, and had not 
learned her lesson. It galled her beyond endurance. She stood 
and looked round her^ seeing the whiteness of the faces, but little 
else in the evening gloom. Was it true that there was nothing — 
nothing in her power ? In poetry a girl can throw herself on her 
knees, can weep, and plead — but only weep and plead ; and she, 
who had not been trained to that, who was conscious of her individu- 
ality, her independent mind and judgment in every nerve — heaven 
above ! was she as helpless still t She stood breathless for a mo- 
ment, with wondering eyes fixed on the darkness, with a gasp of 
proud resistance to fate. Submit to injustice, to cruel heartlessness 
of those who could aid, to still more cruel helplessness — impotence 
« — on her own part ? She stood for a moment gazing at the blank 
wall that seemed to rise before her, as the poor, the helpless have to 
do — as women have to do in all circumstances. It was her first ex- 
perience in this kind. She had been prouH to know that she was 
not as Carry, that no tyranny could crush her spirit ; but this was 
different. She had not anticipated such a trial as this. There came 
from her bosom one sob of supreme pain which she could not keep 
in. Not for John only, whom she could not help in his moment of 
need, but for herself also — to feel herself impotent, helpless, power- 
less as a child. 

Millefleurs came forward from the window hurriedly. Perhaps, 
being so much a man of his time, it was he who understood that gasp 
of suffering best. He said, “Lady Edith, if I can help — ” quickly, 
on the impulse of the moment ; then, thorough little gentleman as 
he was, checked himself. “ Lady Lindores, though I am a stranger, 
yet my name is good enough. Tell me what to do, and I will do it. 
Perhaps it is better that Lord Lindores should not commit himself. 
But I am free, don’t you know ? ” he said, with something of the 
easy little chirrup of more ordinary times. Why was it that, at such 
a moment, Edith, of all others, in her personal despair, should burst 
out into that strange little laugh ? She grasped her mother’s arm 
with both hands in her excitement. Here was a tragic irony and 
ridicule penetrating the misery of the crisis like a sharp arrow, which 
pricked the girl to the very heart. 

This sympathizer immediately changed the face of affairs. Lord 
Lindores, indeed, continued to hold himself apart, pushing back his 
chair once more ; but even to Lord Lindores Millefleurs made a dif- 
ference. He said no more about enthusiasm or common-sense, but 
listened, not without an occasional word of direction. They clus- 
tered together like a band of shadows against the great window, 
which was full of the paleness of the night. Beaufort, who was the 
person most acquainted with all the circumstances, recovered his 
sense of personal importance as he told his story. But, after all, it 
was not as the narrator of John Erskine’s story that he cared to gain 
importance in the eyes of Carry’s family, any more than it was as 
bail for John Erskine that Lord Millefleurs desired to make himself 
agreeable to the ladies at Lindores. Both of the strangers, thus 
caught in the net of difficulties and dangers which surrounded their 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


277 


old comrade, resented it more or less ; but what could they do ? 
Edith took no farther part in the consultation. She retired behind 
her mother, whose arm she continued to hold firm and fast in both 
her hands. When she was moved by the talk going on at her side 
she grasped that arm tightly, which was her only sign of emotion, 
but for the rest retired into the darkness where no one could see, 
and into herself, a still more effectual retirement. Lady Lindores 
felt that her daughter’s two hands clasping her were like a sort of 
anchor which Edith had thrown out in her shipwreck to grasp at 
some certainty. She bore the pressure with a half smile and sigh. 
She, too, had felt the shipwreck with keen passion, still more serious 
than that of Edith ; but she had no one to anchor to. She felt this, 
half with a grateful sense of what she herself was still good for ; but 
still more, perhaps, with that other personal sense which comes to 
most — that, with all the relationships of life still round her, mother 
and wife, she, for all solace and support, was, like most of us, vir- 
tually alone. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Your master is just a young fool! Why, in the name of a’ 
that’s reasonable,” cried Mr. Monypenny, did he not send for 
me ? ” 

Sir,” said Rolls, you’re too sensible a man not to know that 
the last thing a lad is likely to do is what’s reasonable, especially 
when he’s in that flurry, and just furious at being blamed.” 

Mr. Monypenny was Avalking up and down his business-room 
with much haste and excitement. His house was built on the side 
of a slope, so that the room, which was level with the road on one 
side, was elevated on the upper floor at the other, and consequently 
had the advantage of a ’^^iew bounded, as was general, by “ that eter- 
nal Tinto,” as he was in the habit of calling it. The good man, 
greatly disturbed by what he. heard, walked to his window and 
stared out as Rolls spoke ; and he shook his fist at the distant ob- 
ject of so many troubles. Him and his big house and his ill- 
ways — they’ve been the trouble of the country-side those fifteen 
years and more,” cried the excited man of business ; “ and now 
we’re not done with him, even when he’s dead.” 

‘‘ Far from done with him,” said Rolls, shaking his head. He 
was seated on the edge of a chair, with his hat in his lap and a coun- 
tenance of dismay. ‘‘ If I might make so bold as to ask,” he said, 
what would ye say, sir, would be done if the worst came to the 
worst ? I’m no’ saying to Mr. Erskine indiveedually,” added Rolls, 
for it’s my belief he’s had no-thing to do with it ; but, granting 
that it’s some person, and no mere accident ” 

How can I tell — or any man ? ” said Mr. Monypenny. ‘‘ It de- 
pends entirely on the nature of the act. It’s all supposition, so far 
as I can see. To pitch Pat Torrance over the Scaur, him and his 


278 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


big horse, with murderous intent, is more than John Erskine could 
have done, or any man I know. And there was no quarrel or mo- 
tive. Culpable homicide ” 

That’ll be what the English gentleman called manslaughter.” 

Manslaughter is a wide word. It would all depend on the cir- 
cumstances. A year — maybe six months only — if it were to turn out 
so, which I do not for a moment believe,” said Mr. Monypenny, 
fixing his eyes upon Rolls with a determination which betrayed in- 
ternal feebleness of belief. 

Nor me, sir — nor me ! ” cried Rolls, with the same look. They 
were like two conspirators regarding each other with a consciousness 
of the plot, which, even between themselves, each eying the other, 
they were determined to deny. 

But if by any evil chance it were to turn out so, I would advise 
a plain statement,” said Mr. Monypenny — ‘‘just a plain statement, 
concealing nothing. That should have been done at the moment ; 
help should have been sought at the moment ; there’s the error. A 
misadventure like that might happen to any man. We might any 
of us be the means of such an accident ; but panic is Just the worst 
policy. Panic looks like guilt. If he’s been so far left to himself as 
to take fright — to see that big man on his big horse thunderin’ over 
the Scaur would be enough to make any man lose his head,” the 
agent added, with a sort of apology in his tone. 

“If you could think of the young master as in that poseetion,” 
said Rolls. 

“ Which is just impossible,” Mr. Monypenny said, and then 
there was a little pause. “ The wisest thing,” he went on, “ would 
be, just as I say, a plain statement. Such and such a thing hap- 
pened. I lost my head. I thought there was nothing to be done. I 
was foolish enough to shrink from the name of it, or from the cool- 
ness it would make between me and my friends. Ay, very likely 
that might be the cause — the coolness it would make between him 
and the family at Lindores ” y 

“ You’re meaning always if there was ony thing in it at a’ ? ” 

“ That is what I’m meaning. I will go and see him at once,” 
Mr. Monypenny said, “ and that is the advice I will give. A plain 
story, whatever it may be — just the facts ; neither extenuate nor set 
down in malice. And as for you. Rolls, that seem to be mixed up 
in it yourself ” 

“ Ay, sir ; I’m mixed up in it,” said Rolls, turning upon him an 
inquiring yet half-defiant glance. 

“ It was you that found the body first. It was you that met your 
master at the gate. You’re the most important witness, so far as I 
can see. Lord bless us, man ! ” said Mr. Monypenny, forgetting 
precaution, “ had you not the judgment, when you saw the lad had 
been in a tuilzie, to get him out of other folks’ sight, and keep it to 
yourself ? ” 

“ There was John Tamson as well as me,” said Rolls, very 
gravely; and then he added, “but ye canna see yet, Mr. Mony- 
penny, how it may a’ turn.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


279 


I see plenty,” said the man of business, impatiently; and then 
he added, ‘‘the best thing you can do is to find out all you can 
about the ground, and other details. It was always unsafe ; and 
there had been a great deal of rain. Very likely it was worse than 
ordinary that day. And call to mind any circumstances that might 
tell on our side. Ye had better come to me and make me acquainted 
with all your observations. Neglect nothing. The very way the 
beast was lying, if ye can rightly remember, might be a help. You’re 
not without sense. Rolls. I’ve always had a high opinion of your 
sense. Now here’s a chance for you to prove it — And come back 
to me, and we’ll judge how the evidence tends. There’s no need,” 
he said, standing at the window once more with his back to his pupil, 
“ to bring out any points that might turn — the other way.” 

“ I’m not just such a fool as — some folk think,” said, Rolls; 
and yet,” he added in an undertone, “ for a’ that, you canna see, 
Mr. Monypenny, how it may all turn ” 

“ Don’t haver. Rolls,” said the agent, turning upon him angrily ; 
‘‘ or speak out what you mean. There is no man can say how a 
thing will turn but he that has perfect knowledge of all the circum- 
stances — which is not my case.” 

“ That’s what I was saying, sir,” said Rolls, with a tranquil 
assumption which roused Mr. Monypenny’s temper; but the old 
man was so solemn in his air of superior knowledge, so full of sorrowful 
decision and despondency, that anger seemed out of place. The 
other grew alarmed as he looked at him. 

“ For God’s sake, man! ” he cried, “ if there’s anything behind 
that I don’t know, tell it — let me hear the worst. We must know 
the worst, if it’s to make the best of it. Hide nothing from me.” 

“ I give ye my word, sir. I’ll hide nothing — when the time 
comes,” said Rolls, with a sigh ; “ but I canna just unburden my 
bozume at this moment. There’s mail* thought needful, and mair 
planning. And there’s one thing I would like to make sure of, Mr. 
Monypenny. If I’m put to expenses, or otherwise laid open to risk 
and ootlay, there’s no doubt but it would be made up to me ? And 
if, as might happen, anything serious was to befall — without doubt 
the young maister would think himself bound to take good care o’ 
Bauby ? She’s my sister, maybe you’ll mind : an aixcellent house- 
keeper and a good woman, though maybe I should leave her praises 
to ither folk. You see he hasna been brought up in the midst o’ 
his ain folk, so to speak, or I would have little doubt.” 

“ I cannot conceive what you mean, Rolls. Of course I know 
Bauby and her cookery both; but what risk you should run, or 
what she can have to do with it — Your expenses, of course,” said 
the agent, with a contemptuous wave of his hand, “ you may be 
sure enough of. But you must have done pretty well in the service 
of the Dalrulzian family, Rolls. I’m surprised that you should think 
of this at such a moment ” 

“ That’s just what I expectit, sir,” said Rolls ; “'but maybe I 
ken my ain affairs best, having no man of business. And about 
Bauby, she’s just what 1 care for most. I wouldna have her vexed 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


280 

nor distresst for siller, or put out of her ordinar. The maister he’s 
but a young man, and no’ attached to us as he would have been had 
he been brought up at hame. It’s a great drawback to a young lad, 
Mr. Mony penny ” — Roils broke off his personal argument to say, 
sententiously — “ not to be brought up at hame.” 

Because he does not get the chance of becoming attached to 
his servants?” said Mr. Monypenny, with an impatient laugh. 

Perhaps it may be so, but this is a curious moment to moralize on 
the subject.” 

‘‘No’ so curious as you think, sir; but I will not weary you,” 
said Rolls, with some dignity. “ When I was saying ootlay, I 
meant mair than just a sixpence here and there. But Bauby’s the 
grand question. I’m in a strange kind of a poseetion, and the one 
thing I’m clear in is my duty to her. She’s been a rael guid sister 
to me ; aye made me comfortable, studiet my ways, took an 
interest in all my bits o’ fykes. I would ill like either scorn or 
trouble to come to Bauby. She’s awfu’ soft-hearted,” said the old 
butler, solemnly gazing into vacancy with a reddening of his eyes. 
Something of that most moving of Ml sentiments, self-pity, was in 
his tone. He foresaw Bauby’s apron at her eyes for him, and in 
her grief over her brother his own heart was profoundly moved. 
“ There will be some things that nobody can save her from ; but for 
all that concerns this world, if I could be sure that no-thing would 
happen to Bauby ” 

“ Well, Rolls, you’re past my comprehension,” said Mr. Mony- 
penny ; “ but so far as taking care of Bauby in case anything happens 
to you — though what should happen to you I have yet to learn.” 

“That is just so,” said Rolls, getting up slowly. There was 
about him altogether a great solemnity, like a man at a funeral, 
Mr. Monypenny said afterward. “ I cannot expect you to know, 
sir — that’s atween me and my Maker. I’m no’ going back to Dal- 
rulzian. I cannot have my mind disturbed at this awfu’ moment, as 
ye say, with weemen and their ways. If ye see the English gentle- 
man, ye’ll maybe explain. Marget has a very guid notion o’ waitin’ ; 
she can do all that’s necessary ; and for me. I’ve ither work in 
hand.” 

“You must not look at everything in so gloomy a spirit, Rolls,” 
said Mr. Monypenny, holding out his hand. He was not in the 
habit of shaking hands with the butler, but there are occasions when 
rules are involuntarily broken through. 

“ No’ a gloomy spirit, sir, but awfu’ serious,” said Rolls. “ You'll 
tell the young maister no’ to be down-hearted, but at the same time 
no’ to be that prood. Help may come when it’s little looked for. 
I’m no’ a man of mony words, but I’ve been, as you say, sir, at- 
tached to the family all my days, and I have just a feeling for them 
more than common. The present gentleman’s mother — her that 
married the English minister — was no’ just what suited the house. 
Dalrulzian was no-thing to her; and that’s what I complee no’, that 
the young man was never brought- up at hame, to have confidence 
in his ain folk. It would have been greatly for his advantage, sir,” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


281 


continued Rolls, if he had but had the discernment to see that our 
bonny Miss Nora was just the person ; but I mustna think now of 
making conditions,” he said, hurriedly —‘‘ we’ll leave that to his 
good-sense. Mony thanks to you, sir, for hearing me out, and 
shaking my hand as ye’ve done; though there’s maybe things I 
have said that are a wee hard to understand.” 

“ Ay, Rolls.” said Mr. Monypenny, laughing, “ you’re just like 
the other prophets ; a great deal of what you’ve said is Greek and 
Hebrew to me.” 

“ No doubt, no doubt,” said Rolls, shaking his head ; there 
was no smile in him, not a line in his countenance that marked 
even incipient humor. Whatever he meant, it was deadly earnest 
to Rolls. 

Mr. Monypenny stood and watched him go out, with a laugh 
gurgling low down in his throat. “ He was always a conceited body,” 
he said to himself. But his inclination to laughter subsided as his 
visitor disappeared. It was no moment for laughing. And when 
Rolls was gone, the temptation to speculate on his words and put 
meaning into them subsided also, and Mr. Monypenny gave himself 
up with great seriousness to consider the position. He ordered his 
little country carriage — something of the phaeton order, but not ele- 
gant enough for classification — and drove away, as quickly as his 
comfortable cob would consent to go, to where John was. Such a 
thing had not happened to any person of importance in the county 
since he could remember. Debt, indeed — debt was common enough, 
and plenty of trouble always about money, Mr. Monypenny said to 
himself, shaking his head, as he went along. There had been bor- 
rowing and hypothecations of all sorts enough to make a financier’s 
hair stand on end ; but crime never ! Not that men were better 
here than in other quarters ; but among the gentry that had never 
happened. 

The good man ran on, in a rambling, inaudible soliloquy, or 
rather colloquy with himself, as he drove on, asking how it was, 
after all, that incidents of the kind were so rare among the gentry. 
Was the breed better? He shook his head, remembering himself 
of various details which interfered with so easy a solution. Or was 
it that things were more easily hushed up ? or that superior educa- 
tion enforced a greater respect for the world’s opinion, and made 
offences of this sort almost impossible ? It was a strange thing (he 
thought) when you came to think of it. A fellow, now, like the late 
Tinto would have been in every kind of scrape had he been a poor 
man ; but somehow, being a rich one, he had kept out of the hands 
of the law. Such a thing never happened from year’s end to year’s 
end. And to think now that it was not one of our ordinary Scotch 
lairds, but the pink of education and good-breeding, from England and 
abroad ! This gave a momentary theoretical satisfaction to his mus- 
ings by the way. But immediately after he thought, with self-re- 
proach, that it was young Erskine of whom he was permitting himself 
such criticism ; young Dalrulzian, poor lad ! all the more to be pitied 


282 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


that he had been brought up, as Rolls said, away from home, and 
with no father to look after him. 

The cob was use3 to take his own way along those roads which 
he knew so well, but at this point Mr. Monypenny touched him with 
the indignity of a whip, and hurried along. He met Beaufort re- 
turning,, driving, with a little hesitation at the corner of the road, 
John’s dog-cart homeward ; and Mr. Monypenny thought he recog- 
nized the dog-cart, but he did not stop to say anything to the stranger, 
who naturally knew nothing of him. Nor was his interview with 
John at all satisfactory when he came to his journey’s end. The 
young man received his man of business with that air of levity 
which, mixed with indignation, had been his prevailing mood since 
his arrest. He laughed when he said, This is a curious place 
to receive you in,” and for some time he would scarcely give any 
heed to the anxious questions and suggestions of Mr. Monypenny. 

At length, ho\Vever, this veil w^as thrown off, arid John permitted 
the family friend, of whose faithfulness he could have no doubt, to 
see the depth of wounded feeling that lay below. Of course it can 
be nothing to me,” he said, still holding his head high. They can- 
not prove a falsehood, however they may wish it ; but to think that 
of all these men with whom I have eaten and drunk, who have pro- 
fessed to welcome me for my father’s sake — to think that not one 
of them would step in to stand by a fellow, or give him the least 
support ” 

When you reflect that even I knew nothing about it,” said Mr. 
Monypenny — not a word — till old Rolls came ” 

‘‘ Did you hear none of the talk ? ” said John. I did not hear 
it, indeed, but I have felt it in the air. I knew there was something. 
Everybody looked at me suspiciously ; the very tone of their voice 
was changed — my own servants ” 

Your servants are very anxious about you, Mr. Erskine, if I 
may judge from old Rolls. I hat^e seldom seen a man so overcome ; 
and if you will reflect that your other friends throughout the county 
can have heard nothing, any more than myself ” 

Then you did not hear the talk ? ” said John, somewhat eagerly. 
Mr. Monypenny’s countenance fell. 

I paid no attention to it. There’s some story forever going on 
in the country-side. Wise men just shut their ears,” he said. 

Wise men are one thing and friends another,” said John. Had 
I no one who could have told me, at least, on how small a thread 
my reputation hung ? I might have gone away,” he said, with some 
vehemence, at the height of it. If business, or even pleasure, 
had called me, no doubt I should, without a notion of any conse- 
quences. When I think of that I shiver. Supposing I had gone 
away ? ” 

In that case,” said Mr. Monypenny, clearing his throat ; but 
he never got any farther. This alarm affected him greatly. He be- 
gan to believe that his client might be innocent altogether — an idea 
which, notwithstanding all the disclaimers which he and Rolls had 
exchanged, had not crossed his mind before ; but when he heard 


THE LADIES LIJVDORES, 


283 


John^s story his faith was shaken. He listened to it with the deepest 
interest, waiting for the moment when the confession would be 
made. But when it ended, without any end, so to speak, and John 
finally described Torrance as riding up toward the house while he 
himself went down, Mr. Monypenny’s countencince fell. He was 
disappointed. The tale was such as he expected, with this impor- 
tant difference — it wanted a conclusion. The listener gave a gasp of 
interest when the crisis arrived^ but his interest flagged at once when 
it was over, and nothing had happened. And then ? he said, 
breathlessly. And then — But there was no then. John gazed at 
him wondering, not perceiving the failure of the story. ‘ ^ That is all,” 
he said. Mr. Monypenny grew almost angry as he sat gazing at him 
across the table. 

I have just been telling Rolls,” he said, that the best policy 
in such a case is just downright honest truth. To get into a panic 
and keep back anything is the greatest mistake. There is no need 
for any panic. You will be in the hands of those that take a great 
interest in you, Mr. John — begging your pardon for using that 
name.” 

You do not seem satisfied with what I have told you,” John 

said. 

Oh, me ! it^s little consequence what I think; there’s plenty to 
be thought upon before me. I would make no bones about it. In 
most things the real truth is the best, biit most especially when 
you’re under an accusation. Fm for no half measures^ if you- will let 
me say so.” 

I will let you say whatever you please~so long as you under- 
stand what I am saying. I have told you everything.- Do I look 
like a man in a panic ? ” said John. 

Panic has many meanings. I make no doubt you are a brave 
man, and ready to face fire and sword if there was any need. But 
this is different. If you please, wefll not fail to understand each 
other for want of plain speaking. Mr. Erskine, I make no doubt 
that’s all as true as gospel ; but there’s more to come. That’s just a 
part of the story, not the whole.” 

I don’t mean to be offended by anything you say,” said John, 
cheerfully. I feel that it means kindness. There is nothing more to 
come. It is not a part, but the whole. It is the truth, and every- 
thing I know.” 

Mr. Monypenny did not look up ; he was drumming his foot 
softly against the table, and hanging his head with a despondent air 
as he listened. He did not stop the one nor raise the other, but 
went on working his under lip, which projected slightly. There is 
no such tacit evidence of dissatisfaction or unbelief. Some little sign 
invariably breaks the stillness of attention when the teller of a tale 
comes to its end, if his story has been believed. There is, if no words, 
some stir, however slight — movement of one kind or another, if only 
the change of an attitude. But Mr. Monypenny did not pay this 
usual tribute when John’s voice stopped. It was a stronger protest 
than if he had said, ‘‘ I don’t believe you ” in ordinary words. 


284 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


I understand,” said John, after a pause of a full minute, which 
seemed to him an hour. He laughed with something between des- 
pair and defiance. Your mode of communication is very unmis- 
takeable, Mr. Monypenny. It is Scotch, I suppose. One has always 
heard of Scotch caution and cannyness.” If he had not been very 
bitter and sore at heart he would not have snatched at this aimless 
weapon of offence. 

Mr. Erskine,” said the agent, a sneer is always easy. Gibes 
break no bones, but neither have they any healing in them. You 
may say what you like to me, but an argument like that will do you 
terrible little good with them that will have to judge at the end. I 
am giving no opinion myself. On my own account 1 will speak 
frankly. I would rather not have heard this story — unless I was to 
hear ” 

‘‘ What ? ” cried John, in the heat of personal offence. 

More,” said Mr. Monypenny, regretfully — more ; just another 
dozen words would have been enough ; but if there is no more to 


‘^I am not a man to make protestations of truth. There is no 
more to say, Mr. Monypenny.” 

“ Well-a-well,” said the agent, gloomily shaking his head ; we 
must take just what is given— we must try to make the best of it. 
And you think there’s nothing can proved against you ? ” he said, 
with a slight emphasis. It required all John’s self-command to keep 
his temper. He had to remind himself forcibly of the true and 
steady and long-tried kindness with which this doubter had stood by 
him, and cared for his interest all his life— a wise steward, a just 
guardian. These thoughts kept unseemly expressions from his lips, 
but he was not the less sore at heart. Even after the first blow of 
the criminal examination, and his detention in prison, it had all 
seemed to him so simple. What could be necessary but to tell his 
story with sufficient distinctness (in which he thought he had failed 
before the sheriff) ? Surely truth and falsehood were distinguish- 
able at a glance, especially by those who are accustomed to discrim- 
inate between them. But the blank of unbelief and disappointment 
with which Mr. Monypenny heard his story chilled him to the heart. 
If he did not believe him, who would ? He was angry, but anger is 
but a temporary sentiment when the mind is fairly at bay and finds 
itself hemmed in by difficulties and danger. He began to realize his 
position, the place in which h-e was, the circumstances surrounding 
him, as he had not yet done. The sheriff himself had been very 
civil, and deeply concerned to be the means of inflicting such an 
affront upon a county family ; and he had added encouragingly that, 
on his return to Dunearn, in less than a week, when all the witnesses 
were got together, there was little doubt that a different light might 
be thrown on the affair ; but Mr. Monypenny’s question was not 
so consolatory. ‘‘You think there’s nothing can be proved against 
you ? ” John had been gazing at his agent across the table while all 
these painful reflections went through his mind. 

“ I must be careful what I say. I am not speaking as a lawyer, ” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 285 

he said, with an uncomfortable smile. ‘‘What I meant was, that 
nothing could be proved which was untrue.” 

The agent shook his head. “ When it’s circumstancial evi- 
dence, you can never build upon that,” he said. “ No man saw it, 
you may say ; but if all the facts point that way, it goes far with a 
jury. There are some other things you will perhaps tell me. Had 
you ever any quarrel with poor Tinto ? Was there ill-blood be- 
tween you ? Can any man give evidence, for example, ‘ I heard 

the pannel say that he w^ould have it out with Pat Torrance?’ or 
>> 

“ For Heaven’s sake, what is the pannel? and what connection 

is there between poor Torrance and ” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Monypenny, sternly, “this is no time for jests ; 
the pannel is a Scotch law term, meaning the defender ; or what you 
call the defendant in England. It’s a terrible loss to a young man 
to be unacquainted even with the phraseology of his own country.” 

“ That is very true,” John said, with a laugh ; “ but at least it is 
no fault of mine. Well, suppose I am the pannel, as you say — that 
does not make me a vulgar brawler, does it, likely to display hostile 
intentions in that way ? You may be sure no man can say of me 

that I threatened to have it out with Pat Torrance ” 

“ It was inadvertent — it was inadvertent,” said Mr. Monypenny, 
waving his hand, with a slight flush of confusion ; “I dare say you 
never said Pat — But what has that to do with it ? you know my 

meaning. Is there anyone that can be produced to say ” 

“ I have quarrelled with Torrance almost as often as I have met 
him,” said John, with obstinate decision. “I thought him a bully 
and a cad. If I did not tell him so, it was out of regard for his wife, 
and he was at liberty to find out my sentiments from my looks if it 
pleased him. I have never made the least pretence of liking the 
man.” 

Mr. Monypenny went on shaking his head. “ All this is bad,” 
he said, “ bad — but it does not make a quarrel in the eye of the 
law,” he added, more cheerfully ; and he went on putting a variety 
of questions, of which John grew very weary. Some of these ques- 
tions seemed to have very little bearing upon the subject ; some irri- 
tated him as betraying beyond all a persistent doubt of his own 
story. Altogether, the first dreary afternoon in confinement was not 
made much more endurable by this visit. 

The room in which John had been placed was like the parlor of 
a somewhat shabby lodging-house — not worse than he had inhabited 
many a time while travelling. But the idea that he could not step 
outside, but was bound to this enclosure, was first ludicrous, ftiid 
then intolerable. The window was rather higher than usual, and 
there were bars across it. When it became dark, a paraffine lamp, 
such as is now universal in the country — smelling horribly, as is, 
alas ! too universal also — was brought in, giving abundance of light, 
but making everything more squalid than before. And, as Mr. 
Monypenny made his notes, John’s heart sunk, and his impatience 
rose. He got up and began to pace about like a wild beast in a 


286 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


cage, as he said to himself. The sensation was more extraordinary 
than can be imagined. Not to be ah^ie, whatever might happen, to 
leave this shabby room. Whosoever might call to you, whatsoever 
might appeal to you, to be fixed there, all your impulses checked, 
impotent, unable for the first time in your life to do what you had 
done every day of your life — to move out and in, to and fro, as you 
pleased ! 

John felt that if he had been a theatrical felon in a play, mana- 
cled and fettered, it would have been easier, more comprehensible. 
But to know that these four walls were his absolute boundaries, 
and that he could not go beyond them, was more astounding than 
any other sensation that had ever happened to him in his life. And 
when Mr. Monypenny, with his careful brow, weighted with doubts 
and fears, unable to clear his countenance from the disapprobation 
that clouded it, got up to take his leave, and stood holding his 
client’s hands, overwhelmed with sympathy, vexation, dissatisfaction, 
and pity, the impatience and the bitter sense of the intolerable in 
John’s mind could scarcely be restrained. ‘‘Whatever there may 
be more to say, whatever may come to your mind, you have but to 
send me a word, and I’ll be at your call ni*ght or day,” Mr. Mony- 
penny said. 

“ It’s very unlikely that I should have anything more to say,” 
said John ; “ but must I stay here ? ” It seemed incredible to him 
that he should be left even by his own “man of business.” He had 
seen Beaufort go away with a sort of contemptuous certainty of 
speedy liberation ; but Mr. Monypenny had said nothing about lib- 
eration. “ Surely there is nothing to prevent bail being accepted ? ” 
he said, with an eagerness he could not disguise. 

“ 1 will see about it,” Mr. Monypenny said. But the good agent 
went away with a dissatisfied countenance ; and with a feeling that 
he must break through the walls or the barred window, must make 
his escape somehow — could not, would not, endure this extraordinary, 
intolerable new thing — ^John Erskine heard the key turn in his door, 
and was left shut up with the paraffine lamp, flaming and smelling 
more than ever, a prisoner and alone ! Whether it was more ludic- 
rous or more terrible, this annoying, impossible farce-tragedy, it was 
hard to say. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

• 

The day after John’s incarceration was the funeral day at Tinto. 
The whole country was moved by this great ceremonial. The funeral 
was to be more magnificent than ever funeral had been before for 
hundreds of miles around ; and the number of the procession which 
followed the remains was greater than that of any assembly known 
in the country since the ’45, when the whole district on one side or 
the other was “ out.” TJi^t everybody concerned should have found 


THE LADIES LIHDORES. 


287 


it impossible to think of John in the county jail, in the face of the 
necessity of showing respect” on this great occasion to the mem- 
ory of Torrance, was natural. It was, indeed, out of the question 
to make any comparison between the two necessities. 

After all, what did it matter for one day ? Those who were out 
of prison, and had never been in prison, and whose imagination was 
not affected like John’s by that atmosphere of restraint, did not see 
any great harm that could happen. And the ceremony was one. 
which could not be neglected. 

A Scotch funeral is somewhat terrible to those who have been 
accustomed to the pathetic and solemn ritual of the English Church ; 
but there was something, too, impressive to the imagination in that 
silent putting away of the old garment of humanity — a stern submis- 
sion, an acceptance of absolute doom, which, if it suggested little 
consolation, at least shed a wonderful awe on that conclusion, no 
longer to be disturbed by mortal prayers or hopes. But Dr. Stirling, 
the parish minister, was of the new school of the Scotch Church, 
and poor Torrance’s body became, as it were, the flag of a religious 
party as it was laid in the grave. The great dining-room at Tinto, 
the largest room in the county, was crowded with a silent assembly 
gathered round the coffin, while the first portion of the ceremony 
was carried out. It was such a scene as would have filled the heart 
of the dead man with exultation. Not one of the potentates of the 
county was absent ; and behind them, in close ranks, with scarcely 
standing-room, came the smaller notabilities — bonnet lairds, village 
doctors, clergymen, school-masters, lost in the sea of the tenantry 
behind. At the upper end of the room, a very unusual group, stood 
the ladies. Lady Caroline in her widow’s weeds, covered with crape 
from head to foot, her tall, willowy figure drooping under the weight 
of those long, clinging funeral robes, her face perfectly pale and more 
abstract and high-bred than ever, encircled by the whiteness of the 
cap — with her two little children standing by, and her mother and 
sister behind to support her — thrilled many an honest heart in the 
assembly. 

Women so seldom take part in funeral ceremonies in Scotland, 
that the farmers and country-folk were touched beyond measure by 
this apparition. It was described in scores of sympathetic houses 
for long after : ‘‘A snow-drift could not be whiter than the face of 
her ; and the twa little bairns, puir things, glowering frae them, the 
image of poor Tinto himsel’.” 

If there was any skeptic ready to suggest ‘‘that my leddy was 
never so happy a wife to be sic a mourning widow,” the spectators 
had a ready answer : “ Eh, but she would be thinking to hersel’, 
if I had maybe been a wee better to him — ” Thus the popular ver- 
dict summed up the troubled story. Lady Caroline was pale 
enough for the role of the most impassioned mourner. She might 
have been chilled to stone by grief and pain, for anything that was 
apparent. She did not speak or take notice of any one, as was nat- 
ural. Even for her father she had not a word ; and when her little 
boy was led away to follow his father to the grave, she sunk into a 


288 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


chair, having, no doubt, the sympathetic by-standers thought, done 
all that her strength was capable of. This roused a very warm, 
sympathetic feeling for Lady Car throughout all the country-side. 
If it had not been just perhaps a love-match, she had done her duty 
by Tinto, poor fellow ! She had kept him in the right way as far as 
a woman could ; and what was scarcely to be expected, but pleased 
the lookers-on most of all, she had presented an aspect of utter des- 
olation at his funeral. All that a widow could feel was in her face — 
or so at least the by-standers thought. 

The solemn procession filed out of the room ; little Tom 
Torrance clinging to his grandfather’s hand, looking out with big pro- 
jecting eyes like his father’s upon all the wonderful scene, stumping 
along at the head of the black procession. Poor little Tommy 1 he 
had a feeling of his own importance more than anything else. His 
little brain was confused and buzzing. He had no real association 
in his mind between the black thing in front of him and papa ; but 
he knew that he had a right to walk first, to hold fast hold of grand- 
papa’s finger, and keep with his little fat legs in advance of everybody. 

It is difficult to say how soon this sense of importance makes up 
for other wants and troubles. Tommy was only four, but he felt it; 
and his grandfather, who was nearly fifteen times as old, felt it too. 
He felt that to have this child in his hands, and the management of 
a great estate for so long a minority, was worth something in the list 
of his ambitions ; and thus they all went forth, trooping into the long 
line of carriages that shone in the veiled autumnal sunlight, up and 
down the avenue, among the trees in endless succession. Even to 
get them under way was no small matter ; and at the lodge gates 
and down the road there was almost as great a crowd of women and 
poor people waiting to see them go by. 

John Tamson’s wife, by whose very cottage the mournful line pas- 
sed, was full of tragic consciousness. Eh ! ” she said, with bated 
breath, ^^to think that yon day when our John brought ben young 
Dalrulzian a’ torn and disjasket to hae the dirt brushed off o’ him — - 

that yon day was the beginning of a ” 

Hold your tongue, woman ! ” said John Tamson ; ‘‘what has 
the ane to do with the ither ? Ye’re pitting things thegither that 
hae nae natural sequence ; but ye ken naething of logic.” 

“ No’ me,” said the woman ; “ and I wuss that poor young lad just 
kent as little. If he hadna been so book-learned he would have 
been mair friendly-like with them that were of his ain kind and de- 
gree.” 

And as the black line went past, which after a while became ted- 
ious, she recounted to her gossips once more the story which by this 
time everybody knew, but all were willing to hear over again under 
the excitement of this practical commentary. 

“ Losh ! would he leave him lying there and never cry for help ? 
some of the spectators said. 

“ It was never our master that did that,” said Peggy Blair, from 
the Dalrulzian lodge, who hnd declared boldly from the beginning 
that she “ took nae interest ” even in this grand funeral. 


THE LADIES LTNDORES. 


289 


And if it wasna your maister, wha was it that came ben to me 
with the red moul on his claes and his coat a’ torn ?” said Janet 
Tamson. 

I wasna here and I canna tell,” Peggy said, hot and furious. 
“ I would never say what might happen in a moment if a gentleman 
was angry — and Pat Torrance had an awfu’ tongue, as the haill 
county kens — but leave a man groanin’ at the fit o’ a rock, that’s 
what our maister never did, if I were to die for’t ! ” the woman 
cried. 

This made a little sensation among the beholders ; but when it 
was remarked that Dalrulzian was the only gentleman of the county 
who was absent from the funeral, and half a dozen voices together 
proclaimed the reason, ‘‘ He couldna be twa places at once; he’s in 
the jyel for murder,” Peggy was quenched altogether. Grief and 
shame were too much for her. She continued to sob, ‘‘ No’ our 
maister ! ” till her voice ceased to be articulate in the midst of her 
tears. 

Dr. Stirling was seated in full canonicals — black silk gown and 
cambric bands— in one of the first carriages. It was he that his wife 
looked for when the procession passed the manse ; and she put on 
her black bonnet, and covered herself with a veil, and went out very 
solemnly to the churchyard to see the burial. But it was not the 
burial she thought of, nor poor Tinto, nor even Lady Car, for whom 
all day she had been uttering notes of compassion : it was the inno- 
vation of the funeral service which occupied the mind of the minis- 
ter’s wife. With mingled pride and tremblingshe heard her husband 
in the silence begin his prayer by the side of the vault. It was a 
beautiful prayer — partly, no doubt, taken from the English liturgy, 
for which, she said, the doctor always had a high admiration ; ” 
but partly — and that was far the best ” — his own. It, was the first 
time anything of the kind had been done in the county ; and if ever 
there could be a funeral important enough for the introduction of a 
new ceremonial to mark it, it was this one ; but what if the Presby-, 
tery were to take notice' of the innovation ? Perhaps the thrill of 
excitement in her enhanced the sense of greatness of the step which 
the doctor was taking, and his nobility in doing it. And in her eyes 
no ritual could have been more imposing. There were a great many 
of the attendants who thought it was just Poppery,” and a most 
dangerous beginning ; but they were all hushed and reverential while 
the minister’s voice went on. 

When every one had left, and the house was perfectly silent after 
the hum and sound of so many feet. Lady Car herself went forward 
to the window and drew up the blind which covered it. The gloom 
disappeared, and the noonday sunshine streamed in in a moment. 
It was premature, and Lady Lindores was grieved that she had not 
been quick enough to forestall her daughter ; for it would have been 
better, she thought, if her hand had been the first to let in the light, 
and not that of the new-made widow. Carry went farther and opened 
the window. She stepped out upon the heavy stone balcony out- 
side, and received the light full upon her, raising her head to it, 

13 


290 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


and basking in the sunshine. She opened her pale lips to draw in 
great draughts of the sweet autumn air, and threw up her arms to 
the sunshine and to the sky. Lady Lindores stepped out after her, 
laying her hand upon her arm, with some alarm. “ Carry, my darling, 
wait a little.” 

Carry did not make any reply. She said, How long is it, 
mother ? ” still looking up into the clear depths of the sky. 

‘‘ How long is what, my love ? ” 

They were a strange group. A spectator might have thought 
that the pale creature in the midst, so ethereal, so wan, wrapped in 
mourning so profound, had gone distraught with care ; while her 
child at her feet sat on the carpet in front of the window, the emblem 
of childish indifference, playing with her new shoes, which glittered 
and pleased her ; and the two attendant figures, the anxious mother 
and sister, kept watch behind. In Carry the mystery all centred ; 
and even those two who were nearest to her were bewildered, and 
could not make her out ? Was she an Ophelia, moved out of her 
sweet wits by an anguish beyond bearing ? Was she a woman re- 
pentant, appealing to Heaven for forgiveness ? Carry was none of 
these things. She who had been so dutiful all her life, resisting no- 
body, fulfilling all requirements to the letter, bearing the burden of 
all her responsibilities without rebellion or murmur, had ceased in 
a moment to consider outside necessities, even the decorum of her 
sorrowful condition. She gave a long sigh, dismissing, as it were, a 
weight from her breast. “ It is five years and a half,” she said. ‘‘ I 
ought to remember — I that have counted every day — and now is it 
possible, is it possible ? ” 

What, my dearest ? Carry, come in ; you are excited ” 

Not yet, mother. How soft the air is ! and the sunshine flood- 
ing everything. I have been shut up so long. I think the colors 
never were so lovely before.” 

Yes, my darling ; you have been shut up for a whole week. I 
don’t wonder you are glad of the fresh air.” 

A week ! ” Carry said : ‘‘ five years. I have got no good of the 
sunshine, and never tasted the sweetness of the air, for five years. 
Let me feel it now. Oh, how have I lived all this time ! What a 
beautiful country it is ! what a glorious sky 1 and I have been in 
prison, and have never seen them! Is it true ? Is it all over — all, 
all ? ” She turned round and gazed into the room where the coffin had 
been with a gaze full of meaning which no one could mistake. It 
was gone— all was gone. ‘‘You must not be horrified, mother,” she 
said. “ Why should I be false now? I think if it had lasted any 
longer I must have died or run away.” 

“Dear Carry, you would have done neither; you have done 
your duty to the end,” her mother said, drawing Carry into her arms. 
“ It is excitement that makes you speak so.” 

“ Not excitement, but deliverance,” said Lady Car with solemn- 
ity. “ Yes, mother, you are right ; I should have stood to the end ; 
but do you think that would have been a credit to me ? Oh, you 
don’t know how hard falsehood is 1 Falsehood and slavery — they 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


291 


are the same thing ; they make your heart like iron : you have no 
feeling even when you ought perhaps to have feeling. I am cruel 
now ; 1 know you think I am cruel ; but how can one help it ? slaves 
are cruel. I can afford to have a heart now.” 

Come to your room, Carry. It is too dismal for you here.” 

No, I don’t think it is dismal. It is a fine, handsome room — 
v^hettcr than a bedroom to sit in. It is not so much like a prison, and 
f .e view is lovely. There is poor Edith looking at me with her piti- 
ful face. Do you think I ought to cry ? Oh, I could cry well enough 
if that were all — it would be quite easy ; but there is so much to smile 
about,” said poor Lady Car ; then suddenly, leaning upon her 
mother’s shoulder, she burst into a flood of tears. 

It was at this moment that the house-keeper came in, solemn in 
her new mourning, which was almost as “ deep” as Carry’s, with a 
house-maid in attendance, to draw up the blinds and see that the 
great room was restored to order. The gentlemen were to return for 
the reading of the will, and it was meet that all should be prepared and 
made ready. And nothing could so much have touched the hearts of 
the women as to see their mistress thus weeping, encircled in her 
mother’s arms. Poor thing! he was not over good a man to her ; 
but there’s nae rule for judging marriet folk. It’s ill to hae and 
waur to want with them. There’s naebody,” said the house-keeper, 
but must respect my lady for her feeling heart.” 

Lady Caroline, however, would not take the credit of this when 
she had retired to a more private room. She would not allow her 
mother and sister to suppose that her tears were tears of sorrow, such 
as a widow ought to shed. ‘‘You are right, mother — it is the ex- 
citement,” she avowed ; “ every nerve is tingling. I could cry 
and I could laugh. If it had not been for your good training, 
mamma, I should have had hysterics ; but that would be impossible 
to your daughter. When shall I be able to go away ? I know : I 
will not go sooner than is right. I will do nothing I ought not to do ; 
but you could say my nerves were shattered, and that I want rest.” 

“And very truly. Carry,” said Lady Lindores ; “but we must 
know first what the will is. To be sure, your fortune is secured, 
j^ou will be well off — better than any of us ; but there may be regu- 
lations about the children — there may be conditions.” 

‘* Could the children be taken from me ?” Carry said, but not 
with any active feeling ; her powers of emotion were all concentrated 
on one thought. Lady Lindores, who was watching her with all a 
mother’s anxious criticism, fearing to see any failure of right senti- 
ment in her child, listened with a sensation of alarm. She had never 
been contented with herself in this particular. Carry’s children had 
been too much the children of Pat Torrance to awaken the grand- 
mother’s worship, which she thought befitting, in her own heart. 
She felt a certain repulsion when she looked at these black-browed, 
light-eyed creatures, who were their father’s in every feature — not 
Carry’s at all. Was it possible that Carry, too, felt the same ? But 
by-and-by Carry took up that little stolid girl on whom Lady Lin- 
dores could not place her tenderest affections, do what she would, 


292 


THE LADIES LTNDORES, 


and pressed her pale cheek against that undisturbed and stolid little 
countenance. The child’s face looked bigger than her mother’s, 
Lady Lindores thought — the one all mind and feeling, the other all 
clay. She went and gave little Edith a kiss in her compunction and 
penitence for this involuntary dislike ; but fortunately Carry herself 
was unconscious of it, and caressed her babies as if they were the 
most delicate and beautiful in the world. 

Carry was not present at the reading of the will. She shrunk 
from it, and no one insisted. There were father and brother to look 
after her interests. Rintoul was greatly shaken by the events of the 
day. He was ghastly pale, and very much excited and agitated. 
Whatever his sister might do, Rintoul certainly exhibited the truest 
sentiment. Nobody had given him credit for half so much feeling. 
He carried back his little nephew asleep after the long drive home, 
and thrust him into Carry’s arms. I am not much of a fellow,” he 
said, stooping over her, with a voice full of emotion, ‘‘ but I’ll do 
a father’s part to him, if I’m good enough for it. Carry.” 

Carry by this time was quite calm, and wondered at this exhibition 
of feeling, at which Lady Lindores shed tears, though in her heart 
she wondered too, rejoicing that her inward rebellion against Tor- 
rance’s children was not shared by her son. Robin’s heart was 
always in the right place,” she said, with a warmth of motherly ap- 
proval, which was not diminished by the fact that Rintoul’s emotion 
made her still more conscious of the absence of right feeling” in 
herself. 

There was not much conversation between the ladies in the small 
morning-room to which they had withdrawn — a room which had 
never been used and had no associations. Carry, indeed, was very 
willing to talk ; but her mother and sister did their best, with a 
natural prejudice and almost horror of the manner in which she re- 
garded her own circumstances, to keep her silent. Even Edith, who 
would have dissolved the marriage arbitrarily, did not like to hear 
her sister’s cry of satisfaction over the freedom which death had 
brought her. There was something impious and cruel in getting free 
that way. If it had been by a, divorce or separation Edith would 
have been as glad as any ; but she was a girl full of prejudices and 
superstitions, and this candor of Carry’s was a thing she shrunk from | 
as an offence to human nature. She kept behind-backs, often with 
her little niece on her knee, but sometimes by herself, keeping very 
quiet, revolving many thoughts in her heart ; while Lady Lindores 
kept close to Carry, like a sick-nurse, keeping watch over all her 
movements. 

It was dusk when the reading of the will was over, and the sound 
in the house, of footsteps going and coming begun to cease. Then 
Lord Lindores came in with much subdued dignity of demeanor, like 
an ambassador approaching a crowned head. He went up to Carry, 
who lay back in a great easy-chair beside the fire, with her hands 
clasped, pursuing the thoughts which she was not permitted to ex- 
press, and gave her a formal kiss on the forehead ; not that he was 
cold and unsympathetic as a father, but he had been a little afraid of 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


293 


her since her marriage, and she had not welcomed the condolences he 
had addressed to her when he saw her first after Tinto’s death. 

My dear,” he said, ‘‘ this is not a moment for congratulations ; 
and yet there is something to a woman in having earned the entire 
confidence of her husband which must be a subject of satisfaction.” 

Carry scarcely moved in her stillness. She looked at him with- 
out understanding what he meant. ‘‘ It would be better, perhaps,” 
she said, father, not to speak of the circumstances.” 

“ I hope I am not likely to speak in a way that would wound your 
feelings. Carry. Poor Patrick — has done you noble justice in his 
will.” 

A hysterical desire to laugh seized poor Lady Car. Lord 
Lindores himself was a little confused by the name he had coined on 
the spot for his dead son-in-law. He had felt that to call him Tor- 
rance would be cold, as his wish was to express the highest approval ; 
and Pat was too familiar. But this poor Patrick” was not success- 
ful. And Carry knew that, even in the midst of her family, she 
must not laugh that day, whatever might happen. She stopped her- 
self convulsively, but cried, Papa, for Heaven’s sake, don’t talk 
to me any more ! ” 

Do you not see, Robert, that she is exhausted?” said Lady 
Lindores. She thinks nothing of the will. She is worn out with 
— all that she has had to go through. Let her alone till she has had 
time to recover a little.” 

His wife’s interposition always irritated Lord Lindores. I may 
surely be permitted to speak to Carry without an interpreter,” he 
said, testily. ‘‘ It is no doubt a very — painful moment for her. But 
if anything could make up — Torrance has behaved nobly, poor fel- 
low ! It must be gratifying to us all to see the confidence he had in 
her. You have the control of everything during your boy’s minority. 
Carry. Everything is in your hands. Of course it was understood 
that you would have the suppK)rtof your family. But you are ham- 
pered by no conditions : he has behaved in the most princely man- 
ner ; nothing could be more gratifying,” Lord Lindores said. 

Carry sat motionless in her chair, and took no notice, her white 
hands clasped on her lap ; her white face, passive and still, showed 
as little emotion as the black folds of her dress, which were like a 
tragic framework round her. Lady Lindores, with her hand upon 
the back of her daughter’s chair, came anxiously between, and re- 
plied for her. She had to do her best to say the right thing in these 
strange circumstances — to be warmly gratified, yet subdued by the 
conventional gloom necessary to the occasion. ‘‘ I am very glad,” 
she said — that is, it is very satisfactory. I do not see what else he 
could have done. Carry must have had the charge of her own 
children — who else had any right ? But, as you say, it is very grat- 
ifying to find that he had so much confidence ” 

Lord Lindores turned angrily away. Nerves and vapors are 
out of place here,” he said. ‘‘ Carry ought to understand — but, for- 
tunately, so long as I know what I am about — the only one among 
you ” 


294 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


At this Carry raised herself hastily in her chair. She said, 
‘‘Papa!” quickly, with a half gasp of alarm. Then she added, 
without stopping, almost running her words into each other in her 
eagerness, “ They are my children ; no one else has anything to do 
with them ; I must do everything — everything — for them myself ; 
nobody must interfere.” 

“Who do you expect to interfere?” said her father, sternly. 
He found himself confronting his entire family as he turned upon 
Carry, who was so strangely roused and excited, sitting up erect 
in her seat, clasping her pale hands. Rintoul had gone round 
behind her chair, beside his mother ; and Edith, rising up behind, 
stood there also, looking at him, with a pale face and wide-open 
eyes. It was as if he had made an attack upon her — he who had 
come here to inform her of her freedom and her rights. This sud- 
den siding together of all against one is bitter, even when the soli- 
tary person may know himself to be wrong. But Lord Lindores felt 
himself in the right at this moment. Supposing that, perhaps, 
he had made a mistake in this marriage of Carry’s, Fate had step- 
ped in and made everything right. She was nobly provided for, 
with the command of a splendid fortune — and she was free. Now 
at least his wisdom ought to be acknowledged, and that he had 
done well for his daughter. But notwithstanding his resentment he 
was a little cowed “ in the circumstances” by this gathering of pale 
faces against him. Nothing could be said that w^as not peaceful and 
friendly on the day that the dead had gone out of the house. 

“Do you think I am likely to wish to dictate to her,” he said, 
with a short laugh, “ that you stand round to defend her from me ? 
Carry, you are very much mistaken if you think I will interfere. 
Children are out of my way. Your mother will be your best adviser. 

I yield to her better information now. You are tired, you are un- 
happy — you are — left desolate ” 

“ Oh, how do you dare to say such words to me? ” cried Carry, 
rising, coming forward to him with feverish energy, laying her hands 
upon his shoulders, as if to compel him to face her and hear w’hat 
she had to say. “ Don’t you know — don’t you know — I was left 
desolate when you brought me here, five years — five dreadful years 
ago ? Whose fault is that ? I am glad he is dead — glad he is dead Mk 
Could a woman be more injured than that? But now I have neither 
father nor mother,’’ she cried. “ I am in my own right ; my life is 
my own, and my children ; I will be directed no more.” 

All this time she stood with her hands on his shoulders, grasping 
him unconsciously to give emphasis to her words. Lord Lindores 
was startled beyond measure by this personal contact — by the way 
in which poor Carry, always so submissive, flung herself upon him. 

“ Do you mean to use violence to me? Do you mean to turn me 
out of your house ? ” he said. 

“ Oh, father ! — oh, father ! how can I forgive you ? ” Carry cried, 
in her excitement and passion ; and then she dropped her hands 
suddenly and wept, and begged his pardon like a child. 

Lord Lindores was very glad to take advantage of this sudden 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


295 


softening, which he had so little expected. He kissed her and put 
her back in her chair. 1 would recommend you to put her to 
bed,” he said to his wife; ^‘she has been overdone.” And he 
thought he had got the victory, and that poor Carry, after her little 
explosion, was safe in his hands once more. He meant no harm to 
Carry. It was solely of her good and that of her children that he 
thought. It could do no harm either to the one or the other if they 
served his aims too. He drove home with his son soon after, leav- 
ing his wife behind him — it was proper that Carry should have her 
mother and sister with her at so sad a time. And the house of 
Tinto, which had been so dark all these nights, shone demurely out 
again this evening at a window here and there — death, which is 
always an oppression, being gone from it, and life resuming its 
usual sway. The flag still hung half-mast high, drooping against 
the flag-staff, for there was no wind. 

But I’m thinking, my lord, we’ll put it back to-morrow,” said 
tho butler, as he stood solemnly at the carriage-door. He stood 
watching it roll down the avenue in that mood of genial exhaustion 
which makes men communicative. ‘‘ It’s a satisfaction to think 
all’s gane well and everybody satisfied,” he said to his subordinate, 
“ for a death in a family is worse to manage than ony other event. 
You’re no’ just found fault with at the moment, but it’s minded 
against you if things go wrong, and your ‘want o’ feelin’.’ My 
lady will maybe think it want o’ feelin’ if I put up the flag. But 
why should I no’ ? For if big Tinto’s gane, there’s wee Tinto, still 
m^ir important, with all the world before him. And if I let it be 
they’ll say it’s neglect.” 

“ My lady will never fash her head about it,” said the second in 
command. 

“ How do you ken ? Ah, my lad, you’ll find a change. The 
master might give you a damn at a moment, but he wasna hard to 
manage. We’ll have all the other family — her family — to give us 
our orders now.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

It is a strange experience for a man whose personal freedom has 
never been restrained to find himself in prison. The excitement 
and amazement of the first day made it something so exceptional 
and extraordinary, that out of very strangeness it was supportable ; 
and Erskine felt it possible to wind himself up to the necessity of 
endurance for one night. But the dead stillness of the long, long 
morning which followed was at once insupportable and incompre- 
hensible to him. What did it mean ? He saw the light brighten in 
his barred window, and persuaded himself, as long as he could, that 
it was as yet too early for anything to be done ; but when he heard 
all the sounds of life outside, and felt the long moments roll on, and 


296 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


listened in vain for any deliverance, a cold mist of amazement and 
horror began to wrap John’s soul. Was he to be left there ? to lie 
in jail like any felon, nobody believing him, abandoned by all ? He 
could not do anything violent to relieve his feelings, but it was 
within him to have dashed everything wildly about the room — to 
have flown at the window and broken it to pieces — to have torn linen 
and everything else to shreds. He stood aghast at himself as this 
wild fury of impatience and misery swept over him. He could have 4 
beaten his head against the wall. To sit still, as a man, a gentle- 
man is compelled to do, restraining himself, was more hard than 
any struggles of Hercules. And those slow, sunny moments stole 
by, each one of them as long as an hour. The sun seemed to be 
stationary in the sky ; the forenoon was a century. 

When he heard some one at last approaching he drew a long 
breath of satisfaction, saying to himself that now at last the suspense 
would be over. But when it proved to be Miss Barbara, with her 
arms full of provisions for his comfort, her maid coming after, bear- 
ing a large basket, it is impossible to describe the disappointment, 
the rage that filled him. The effort to meet her with a smile was al- 
most more than he was capable of. He did it, of course, and con- 
cealed his real feelings, and accepted the butter and eggs with such 
thanks as he could give utterance to ; but the effort seemed almost 
greater than any he had ever made before. Miss Barbara, for her 
part, considered it her duty to her nephew to maintain an easy as- 
pect, and ignore the misery of the situation. She exerted herself to 
amuse him, to talk as if nothing was amiss. She told him of Tinto’s 
grand funeral, with which the whole country-side was taken up. 
Everybody is there,” Miss Barbara said, with some indignation — 
great and small, gentle and simple, as if auld Torrance’s son was 
one of the nobles of the land.” 

“ They care more for the dead than the living,” John said, with 
a laugh. It was well to laugh, for his lip quivered. No doubt this 
was the reason why no one had leisure to think of him. And his 
heart was too full of his own miseries to be capable of even a mo- 
mentary compassion for the fate of Torrance — a man not very much 
older than himself, prosperous and rich and important — snatched in 
a moment from all his enjoyments. He had been deeply awed and 
impressed when he heard of it first ; but by this time the honors paid 
to the dead man seemed to John an insult to his own superior claims 
— he who was living, and suffering unjustly. To think that those 
who called themselves his friends should have deserted him to show 
a respect which they could not feel for the memory of a man whom 
they had none of them respected while he lived ! He was no cynic, 
nor fond of attributing every evil to the baseness of humanity, but 
he could not help saying now, between his closed teeth, that it was 
the way of the world. 

He had another visitor in the afternoon, some time after Miss 
Barbara took her departure, but not one of those he expected. To 
his great surprise it was the white, erect head of old Sir James which 
was the next he saw. The veteran came in with a grave and troubled 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


297 


countenance. He gave a shudder when he heard the key turn in 
the door. I have come to see if there was — anything I could do 
for you,” Sir James said. 

John laughed again. To laugh seemed the only possible way of 
expressing himself. It is permissible for a man to laugh when a 
woman would cry, and the meaning is much the same. This ex- 
pressed indignation, incredulity, some contempt, yet was softened 
by a gentler sentiment, at sight of the old soldier’s kind and benign 
but puzzled and troubled face. I don’t know what any one can do 
for me but to take me out of this,” he said, and no one seems dis- 
posed to do that.” 

‘‘ John Erskine,” said the old general, solemnly, the circum- 
stances are very serious. If you had seen, as I have seen, a young, 
strong man laid in his grave this day, with a little toddling bairn 
chief mourner 1” His voice broke a little as he spoke. He waved 
his hand, as if to put this recollection away. And your story was 
not satisfactory. It did not commend itself to my mind. Have pa- 
tience and hear me out. I came away from you in displeasure, and 
I’ve done nothing but turn it over and over in my thoughts ever 
since. It’s very far from satisfactory ; but I cannot find it in my 
heart to disbelieve you,” the old man cried, with a quiver of emo- 
tion in his face. He held out his large, soft, old hand suddenly as 
he spoke. John, who had been winding himself up to indignant 
resistance, was taken entirely by surprise. He grasped that kind 
hand, and his composure altogether failed him. 

I am a fool,” he cried, dashing the tears from his eyes, to 
think that one day’s confinement should break me down. God bless 
you, Sir James I I can’t speak. If that’s so I’ll make shift to bear 
the' rest.” 

Ay, my lad, that’s just so. I cannot disbelieve you. You’re 
a gentkman, John Erskine. You might do an act of violence — any 
man might be left to himself ; but you would not be base and lie. I 
have tried to think so, but I cannot. You would never deceive an 
old friend.” 

‘Mf I had murdered poor Torrance in cold blood, and meaning 
it,” said John — there is no telling — I might have lied too.” 

“ No, no, no,” said Sir James, putting out his hand; ‘‘at the 
worst it was never thought to be that ; but you have no look of false- 
hood in you. Though it’s a strange story, and little like the truth, I 
cannot disbelieve you. So now you wfill tell me, my poor lad, what I 
can do for you. We’re friends again, thank God ! I could not bide 
to be unfriends-i— and my old wife was at me night and day.” 

“ If Lady Montgomery believes in me too ” 

“Believes in you! she would give me no rest, I tell you — her 
and my own spirit. She would not hear a word. All she said was, 
‘ Hoots, nonsense, Sir James 1 ’ I declare to you that was all. She’s 
not what you call a clever woman, but she would not listen to a 
word. ‘ Hoots, nonsense 1 ’ that was all. We could not find it in 
our hearts.” 

He was a little disposed, now that he had made his avowal, to 

13* 


2g8 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


dwell upon it, to the exclusion of more important matters ; but 
when at last he permitted John to tell him what his expectations had 
been, and what his disappointment, as the long, slow morning stole 
over unbroken. Sir James was deeply moved. ‘‘ Why did not 
Monypenny come to me ? ” he said. “ He was taken up, no doubt, 
with what was going on to-day. But I would have been your bail in 
a moment. An old friend like me — the friend not only of your, 
father, but of your grandfather before him 1 ” But when he had 
said so much he paused, and employed a little simple sophistry to 
veil the position. The sheriff will be round in the end of the 
week. I would not trouble him, if I were you, before that. What’s 
three or four days ? You will then come out, with every gentleman 
in the county at your back. It’s not that I think it would be refused. 
People say so, but I will not believe it, for one ; only I would not 
stir if I were you. A day or two, what does that matter ? My pride 
would be to bide the law, and stand and answer to my country. 
That is what I would do. Of course I’ll be your caution, and any 
other half-dozen men in the county ; but I’ll tell you what I would 
do myself — I would stand it out if I were you.” 

You never were shut up in a jail. Sir James ? ” 

Not exactly in a jail,” said the old soldier ; ^‘but I’ve been in 
prison, and far worse quarters than this. To be sure, there’s an 

excitement about it when you’re in the hands of an enemy ” 

In the hands of an enemy,” cried John — a thing to be proud 
of ; but laid by the heels in a wretched hole, like a poacher or a 
thief ! ” 

“ I would put up with it if I were you. There is nothing dis- 
graceful in it. It is just a mistake that will be put right. I will come 
and see you, man, every day, and Lady Montgomery will send you 
books. I hope they will not be too good books, John. That’s her 
foible, honest woman. You seem to be victualled for a siege,” Sir 
James added, looking round the room. That is Miss Barbara 
Erskine, I will be bound.” 

“I felt disposed to pitch them all out of the window,” said 
John. 

Nothing of the sort ; though they’re too good to fall into the 
hands of the turnkeys. Keep up your heart, my fine lad. I’ll see 
Monypenny to-night before I dine, and if we cannot bring you out 
with flying colors, between us, it will be a strange thing to me. Just 
you keep up your heart,” said Sir James, patting John kindly on the 
back as he went away. The sheriff will be round here again on 
the 25th, and we’ll be prepared for the examination, and bring you 
clear off. It’s not so very long to wait.” 

With this John was forced to be content. The 25th was four 
days off, and to remain in confinement for four days more was an 
appalling anticipation ; but Sir James’s visit gave him real cheer. 
Perhaps Mr. Monypenny, too, on thinking it over, might turn to a 
conviction of his client’s truth. 

While Sir James rode home, pleased with himself that he had 
obeyed his own generous impulse, and pleased with John, who had 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


299 


been so unfeignedly consoled by it, Lord Lindores and his son were 
driving back from Tinto together in the early twilight. There was 
not a word exchanged between them as they drove down the long 
avenue in the shadow of the woods ; but as they turned into the 
lighter road Lord Lindores returned to the subjects which occupied 
his mind habitually. “ That is a business well over,” he said, with 
a sigh of satisfaction. It is always a relief when the last ceremonies 
are accomplished ; and though Carry chose to meet me with heroics, 
it is very satisfactory to know that her position is so good. One could 
never be sure, with a man of Torrance’s temper. He was as likely 
as not to have surrounded his widow with annoyances and restraints. 
He has erred just a little on the other side now, poor fellow ! Still, 
he meant it, no doubt, for the best.” Lord Lindores spoke to his 
son with an ease and confidence which he could not feel with the 
other members of his family. Rintoul himself, indeed, had been 
somewhat incomprehensible for a little time past ; but indigestion, 
or any other trifling reason, might account for that. ‘‘ And now 
that all is over we must think of other matters,” he continued. 

This business about Edith must be settled. Millefleurs must have 
his answer. He has been very patient ; but a young fellow like 
that knows his own importance, and Edith must hear reason. She 
will never have another such chance.” 

Rintoul made a little movement in his corner, which was all that 
stood for a reply on his part ; and his father could not even see the 
expression of his face. 

‘‘ I can only hope that she will be more amenable to his influence 
than to mine,” said Lord Lindores, with a sigh. “ It is strange that 
she, the youngest of my children, should be the one to give me the 
most trouble. Rintoul, it is also time that I should speak to you 
about yourself. It would give your mother and me great satisfaction 
to see you settled. I married early myself, and I have never had 
any reason to repent it. Provided that you make a wise choice. 
The two families will no doubt see a great deal of each other when 
things are settled between Edith and Millefleurs ; and I hear on all 
hands that his sister. Lady Reseda — you met her several times in 
town ” 

Yes, I met her,” said Rintoul, reluctantly. He turned once 
more in his corner, as if he would fain have worked his way through 
and escaped ; but he was secured for the moment, and in his father’s 
power. 

‘‘ And you admired her, I suppose, as everybody does? She is 
something like her brother ; but what may perhaps be thought a lit- 
tle-well, comical — in Millefleurs is delightful in a girl. She is a 
merry little thing, the very person I should have chosen for you, 
Rintoul ; she would keep us all cheerful. We want a little light- 
heartedness in the family. And though your father is only a Scotch 
peer, your position is unimpeachable ; and I will say this for you, 
that you have behaved very well ; few young men would have con- 
ducted themselves so irreproachably in such a sudden change of 
circumstances. I feel almost certain that though a daughter of the 


300 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


duke’s might do better, you would not be looked upon with unfavor- 
able eyes.” 

I — don’t know them. I have only met them — two or three 
times ” 

“ What more is necessary? You will be Millefleurs’s brother- 
in-law.” 

‘‘Are you so sure of that?” asked Rintoul. There was some- 
thing in his tone which sounded like nascent rebellion. Lord Lin- 
dores pricked up his ears. 

“ I do not willingly entertain the idea that Edith would disobey 
me,” he said, with dignity. “ She has high-flown notions. They 
are in the air nowadays, and will ruin the tempers of girls if they 
are not checked. She makes a fight to have her own way, but I 
cannot believe that she would go the length of downwriglit diso- 
bedience. I have met with nothing of the kind yet.” 

“ I think you are likely to meet with it now,” said Rintoul ; and 
then he added, hastily, “ Carry has not been an encouraging ex- 
ample.” 

“Carry!” said Lord Lindores, opening his eyes. “I confess 
that I do not understand. Carry ! why, what woman could have a 
nobler position ? Perfect control over a very large fortune, a situ- 
ation of entire independence — too much for any woman. That Car- 
ry’s unexampled good-fortune should be quoted against me is extra- 
ordinary indeed.” 

“ But,” cried Rintoul, taken by surprise, “ you could not hold 
up to Edith the hope of what might happen if — Millefleurs were 
to ” 

“ Break his neck over a scaur,” said Lord Lindores, almost with 
a sneer. He felt his son shrink from him, with an inarticulate cry, 
and with instant. perception remedied his error in taste, as he thought 
it. “I ought not to speak so after such, a tragedy. You are right, 
Rintoul. No ; Millefleurs is a very different person ; but of course 
it is always a consolation to know that, whatever happens, one’s child 
will be abundantly and honorably provided for. My boy, let us 
look at the other matter. It is time you thought of marrying, as I 
say.” 

Rintoul flung himself against the side of the carriage, with a 
muttered curse. “ Marrying ! Hanging is more what I feel like ! ” 
he cried. 

“ Rintoul ! ” 

“ Don’t torture me, father. There is not a more wretched fellow 
on the face of the earth. Link an innocent woman’s name with 
mine? Ask a girl to — For Heaven’s sake let me alone — let me 
be 1” 

“ What is the meaning of this?” Lord Lindores cried. “Are 
you mad, Rintoul ? I am altogether unprepared for heroics in 
you.” 

The young man made no reply. He put his head out to the 
rushing of the night air and the soft darkness, through which the 
trees and distant hills and rare passengers were all like shadows. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


301 


He had looked stolidly enough upon all the shows of the exter- 
nal world all his life, and thought no more of them than as he saw 
them 

“A primrose by the river’s brim 
A yellow primrose was to him.” 

There had been no images or similitudes in light or darkness ; 
but now another world had opened around him. He had a secret 
with the silence — the speechless, inanimate things about knew some- 
thing of him which nobody else knew ; and who could tell when 
they might find a voice and proclaim it to the world ? He uncovered 
his head to the air which blew upon him and cooled his fever. The 
touch of that cool, fresh wind seemed the only thing in earth or 
heaven in which there was any consolation. As for Lord Lindores, 
he sat back in his corner, more angry than concerned, and more 
contemptuous than either. A woman has, perhaps, some excuse for 
nerves ; but that his son, upon whose plain understanding he could 
always rely, and whose common-sense was always alive to the im- 
portance of substantial arguments, should thus relapse into tragedy 
like his sisters, was more than he could tolerate. He would not 
even contemplate the idea that there was any cause for it. Riiftoul 
had always been well-behaved. He was in no fear of any secrets 
that his son might have to reveal. 

Rintoul,” he said, after a pause, if you have got into any 
scrape, you should know well enough that I am not the sort of man 
to take it tragically. I have no faith in making molehills into moun- 
tains. I don’t suppose you have done anything disgraceful. You 
must be off your head, I think. What is it ? You have been out of 
sorts for some time past.” 

These words came like beatings of a drum to Rintoul’s ears as he 
leaned out into the rushing and sweep of the night air. There was 
a composure in them which brought him to himself. Anything dis- 
graceful meant cheating at cards, or shirking debts of honor, or 
cowardice. Practically, these were about the only things disgrace- 
ful that a young man could do. An entanglement,” a heavy loss 
at cards or on the turf, any other minor vice, could be compounded 
for. Lord Lindores was not alarmed by the prospect of an explana- 
tion with his son. But that Rintoul should become melodramatic, 
and appeal to earth and heaven, was contemptible to his father. 
This cool and common-sense tone had its natural effect. Lord Lin- 
dores thought. Rintoul drew in his head, sat back in his corner, and 
was restored to himself. 

I have been out of sorts,” he said — I suppose that’s what it is. 
I see everything en noir. All this business — seeing to things — the 
black — the house shut up ” 

Let me warn you, Rintoul, don’t cultivate your susceptibili- 
ties,” said his father. “ What is black more than blue or any other 
color ? This sort of thing is all very well for a woman ; but I 
know what it is. It’s stomach — that is really at the bottom of 
all tragedy. You had better speak to the doctor. And now, thank 


302 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


Heaven, this Tinto business is over ; we can get back to the affairs 
of life/» 

The rest of the drive passed in complete silence. And all the 
time they were together Rintoul said not a word to his father about 
John Erskine. His situation was altogeter ignored between them. 
It was not that it was forgotten. If these two men could have opened 
Dunnottar Jail — nay, could they have swept John Erskine away into 
some happy island where he would have been too blessed to think 
anything more about them — they would have done it — the one with 
joyous alacrity, the other with satisfaction at least. This gloomy 
incident was over, and Lord Lindores had no desire to hear any 
more of it. It was just the end that anybody might have expected 
Torrance to come to. Why could not the officious blockheads of 
the country-side let the matter alone ? 

But he did not feel that desire to help and right John Erskine 
which his warm adoption of the young man to his friendship would 
have warranted. For why? Such an incident, however it ended, 
would certainly spoil young Erskine’s influence in the county. He 
would be of no more advantage to any one. A quarrel was nothing ; 
but to escape from the consequences of that quarrel, to let a man 
die 5t the foot of a precipice without sending help to him, that was 
a thing which all the country-side turned against. It was this that had 
roused so strong a feeling against John, and Lord Lindores made up 
his mind philosophically that though Erskine would probably be 
cleared of all imputation of blood-guiltiness, yet, innocent or guilty, 
he would never get over it, and, consequently, would be of no 
farther use in any public projects. At the same time his own 
views had changed in respect to the means of carrying these pro- 
jects out. 

Lord Millefleurs was abetter instrument than county eminence. 
A seat gained was of course always an appreciable advantage. But it 
was not certain even that the seat could have been gained; and a son- 
in-law in hand is better than many boroughs in the bush. The duke 
could not ignore Lord Lindores’s claims if Edith was a member of 
the family. This was far more important than anything that could 
concern John Erskine, though Lord Lindores would have been 
heartily thankful — now that he was good for nothing but to excite 
foolish sympathies — if he could have got John Erskine happily out 
of the way. 

Millefleurs had reached Lindores some time before : he had re- 
turned direct from the funeral along with Beaufort, who, much mar- 
velling at himself, had stood among the crowd, and seen Carry’s 
husband laid in his grave. The sensation was too extraordinary to 
be communicated to any one. It had seemed to him that the whole 
was a dream, himself a spectre of the past, watching bewildered, 
while the other, whom he had never seen, who was nothing but a 
coffin, was removed away and deposited among the unseen. He 
had not been bold enough to go into the house to see Carry, even 
from the midst of the crowd. Whether she was sorrowing for her 
husband, or feeling some such thrills of excitement as were in his 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


303 


own bosom at the thought that she was free, Beaufort could not tell ; 
but when he found himself seated at the table that evening with her 
father and brother he could not but feel that his dream was going on, 
and that there was no telling in what new scene it might unfold fresh 
wonders. The four gentlemen dined alone, and they were not a 
lively party. After dinner they gathered about the fireplace, not 
making any move toward the forsaken drawing-room. This is a 
sad sort of amusement to provide for you,” Lord Lindores said. 
‘‘We hoped to have shown you the more cheerful side of Scotch 
life.” 

“I have had a very good time ; what you might call a lovely 
time,” said Millefleurs. Then he made a pause, and, drawing closer, 
laid his plump finger on Lord Lindore’s arm. “ I don’t want to 
make myself a nuisance now; but — not to be troublesome — if I am 
not likely soon to have an opportunuy of addressing myself to Lady 
Edith, don’t you think I had better go away? ” 

“You may well be tired of us— a house of mourning,” said Lord 
Lindores, with a smile of benevolent meaning. “ It was not for this 
you came into these wilds.” 

“ They are far from being wilds : I have enjoyed myself very 
much,” said little Millefleurs. “ All has been new ; and to see a 
new country, don’t you know, is always the height of my ambition. 
But such a thing might happen as that I wasn’t wanted. When a 
lady means to have anything to say to a fellow, I have always heard, 
she lets him know. To say nothing is, perhaps, as good a way of 
saying No as any. It may be supposed to save a man’s feelings ” 

“ Am I to understand that you have spoken to my daughter, 
Millefleurs ? ” 

“ I have never had the chance. Lord Lindores. On the very 
evening, you will remember, when I hoped to have an explanation 
this unfortunate accident happened. I am very sorry for the gentle- 
man whom, in the best of circumstances, I can never now hope to 
call my brother-in-law ; but the position is, perhaps, a little awkward. 
Lady Edith is acquainted with my aspirations, but I — know nothing, 
don’t you know,” said the little marquis. He had his hand upon his 
plump bosom, and raised himself a little on one foot as he spoke. “It 
makes a fellow feel rather small, and in my case that isn’t wanted,” 
he added, cheerfully. Nothing less like a despairing lover could be 
imagined ; but, though he resembled a robin redbreast, he was a 
man quite conscious of the dignities of his position and not to be 
played with. A cold chill of alarm came over Lord Lindores. 

“ Edith will return to-morrow or next day,” he said ; “or, if you 
choose to go to Tinto, her mother regards you so much as a friend 
and favorite that she will receive you gladly, I am sure. Go, then.” 

“ No,” said Millefleurs, shaking his head — “ no, that would be 
too strong. I never saw the poor fellow but once or twice, and the 
last time I had the misfortune to disagree with him ; no, I can’t con- 
vey myself to his house to learn if I’m to be taken or not. It is a 
droll sort of experience. I feel rather like a bale of goods, don’t you 
know, on approval,” he said, with a laugh. He took it with great 


304 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


good-humor, but it was possible that even Millefleurs’s good-humor 
might be exhausted. 

I undertake for it that you shall not have to wait much longer, 
said Lord Lindores. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

Rintoul had bad nights, and could not sleep. He had been in 
such constant movement that day that he was fatigued, and had 
hoped for rest ; but, after tossing on his uneasy bed, he got up again, 
as for several nights past he had been in the habit of doing, and 
began to pace up and down his room. The house was all buried in 
repose and silence — the woods rustling round, the river flowing, the 
silence outside tingling with the never altogether hushed movements 
of Nature ; but in-doors nothing stirring — all dark ; nothing but the 
heavy breath of sleep within the thick old walls. The fire was dying 
out on the hearth ; the candles, which he lighted hastily, did not half 
light the room, but, rather, cleared a little spot in the darkness and 
left all else in gloom. A nervous tremor was upon the young man — he 
to whom nerves had been all folly, who had scoffed at them as affec- 
tation or weakness ; but he had no longer that command of himself 
of which he had once been proud. His mind strayed involuntarily 
into thoughts which he would fain have shut out. They dwelt upon 
one subject and one scene which he had shut his mind to a hundred 
times, only to feel it the next moment once more absorbing every 
faculty. His shadow upon the window paced up and down, up and 
down. He could not keep quiet. He did not care to have the door 
of his room behind him, but kept it in sight, as if he feared being 
taken at a disadvantage. What did he fear ? He could not tell. 
Imagination had seized hold upon him — he who had never known 
what imagination was. He could not rest for it. The quiet was full 
of noises. He heard the furniture creaking, as it does at night, the 
walls giving out strange echoes ; and, never having kept any vigil 
before, thought that these strange voices of the night had to do with 
himself, and in his soul trembled, as if he had been surrounded by 
enemies or spies searching his inmost thoughts. 

Thus he walked up and down the room, keeping his face to the 
door. Did he expect any one, anything, to come in? No, no; 
nothing of the kind. But it is certain that sometimes along the long 
passage he heard sounds as of a horse’s hoofs. He knew it was non- 
sense. It was the sound of the river, to which he was perfectly accus- 
tomed ; but yet it sounded, somehow, like a horse’s hoofs. He never 
would have been surprised at any moment to see the door pushed 
open and something come in. He knew it was ridiculous, but still 
he could not help, the feeling. And the silence of the house was a 
pain to him beyond telling. One of these nights one of the servants 
had been ill, and Rintoul was glad. The sense that some one was 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 305 

waking, moving about, was a relief. It seemed somehow to give him 
a sort of security, to deliver him from himself. 

But while he thus felt the advantage of waking humanity near 
him, he was thankful beyond description that the society of the house 
was diminished — that his mother and Edith were away. He knew 
that they must have found him out — if not what was in his mind, at 
least that there was something on his mind. During the last twenty- 
»*four hours particularly they would have been worse spies than the 
trees and the winds. How could he have kept himself to himself in 
their presence, especially as they would have besieged him with ques- 
tions, with incitements to do something ? They would have assumed 
that they knew all about it in their ignorance. They ! They were 
always assuming that they knew. There was a fierce momentary 
satisfaction in Rintours mind to think how completely out they 
would be, how incapable of understanding the real state of the case. 
They thought they knew everything I But he felt that there was a 
possibility that he might have betrayed himself in the very pleasure 
he would have had in showing them that they knew nothing ; and it 
was better, far better, that they should be out of the way. 

He did not, however, yield to this fever of the mind without do- 
ing what he could manfully to subdue it. He made a great effort 
now to fix his mind upon what his father had said to him ; but the 
names of Millefleurs and Lady Reseda only swept confusedly through 
his brain, like straws upon the surface of the stream. Sometimes he 
found himself repeating one. of them vaguely, like a sort of idiotical 
chorus, while the real current of his thoughts ran on. Lady Reseda, 
Lady Reseda ! — what had she to do with it? — or Millefleurs, Mille- 
fleurs ! They were straws upon the surface, showing how rapidly the 
torrent ran — not anything he could catch hold of. 

There was one name, however, round which that dark current of 
his thoughts eddied and swirled as in a whirlpool — the name of John 
Erskine. There could not be any doubt that he had something to 
do with it. He had thrust himself into a matter that did not con- 
cern him, and he was paid for his folly. It was not his place to 
stand up for Carry, to resent her husband’s rudeness ; what had he 
to do with it ? He was an intrusive, officious fool, thrusting himself 
into other people’s business. If he brought himself into trouble by 
it, was that Rintoul’s fault ? Was he bound to lay himself open to a 
- great deal of annoyance and embarrassment in order to save John 
Erskine from the consequences of his own folly ? This was the 
question that would not let him rest. Nothing Rintoul had been a 
party to had compromised John Erskine. It was all his own doing. 
Why did he, for his pleasure, take the Scaur road at all ? Why did 
he stop and quarrel, seeing the other was excited ? Why rush down 
in that silly way, with his coat torn, to make an exhibitfon of him- 
self? All these things were folly — folly beyond extenuation. He 
ought to have known better ; and whatever followed, was it not his 
own fault ? 

Along with this, however, there were other thoughts that flashed 
at Rintoul, and would not let him dtlrry on steadily to the conclusion 


3o6 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


he desired. There are some things that are permissible and some 
that are not permissible. A gentleman need not betray himself : it 
is not indispensable that he should take the world into his confidence, 
if any accident happens to him, and he gets himself into trouble ; 
but he must not let another get into trouble for him — that comes 
into the category of the ‘‘anything disgraceful^’ which Lord Lin- 
dores was assured his son had never been guilty of. No ; he had 
never done anything disgraceful. How was he to escape it now? 
And then, looking back upon all the circumstances, Rintoul sadly 
perceived what a fool he had been not to put everything on a 
straightforward footing at once. He reflected that he could have 
given almost any account of the occurrence he pleased. There was 
nobody to contradict him ; and all would have been over without 
complication, without any addition from the popular fancy. 

It seemed to him now, reflecting upon everything, all the details 
that had filled him with an unreflecting panic then, that nothing 
could have been easier than to explain the whole matter. But he 
had lost that good moment, and if he made the confession now every 
false conception which he had feared would be realized. People 
would say, “ If this was all, why make any mystery about it ? Why 
expose another to disgrace and suffering? ” Rintoul had not intelli- 
gence enough, though he had always plumed himself on his common- 
sense, to thread his way among those conflicting reasonings. He 
grew sick as the harpies of recollection and thought rushed upon 
him from all quarters. He had no power to stand against them — to 
silence her who cried, “ Why did you not do this ? ” — while he held 
at bay the other, who swooped down upon him screaming, “ How 
could you do that ? ” 

When it grew more than he could bear he retreated to his bed, 
and flung himself exhausted upon it, throwing out his arms with the 
unconscious histrionic instinct of excitement, appealing to he knew 
not what. How could he do this thing ? How could he leave it un- 
done ? Rintoul in his despair got up again and found an opiate 
which had been given him when he had toothache, long ago — in 
days when toothache was the worst torture he knew. He swallowed 
it, scarcely taking the trouble to mark how much he was taking, 
though the moment after he took a panic, and got up and examined 
the bottle to assure himself that all was right. It was nearly day- 
break by the time that this dose sent him to sleep — and he scarcely 
knew he had been asleep, so harassing were his dreams, till he came 
to himself at last, to find that it was eleven o’clock in a dull fore- 
noon, his shutters all open, and the dim light pouring in. The 
horrors of waking when the mind is possessed by great misery is a 
well-worn subject — everybody knows what it is to have Care seated 
by his bedside, ready to pounce upon him when he opens his eyes ; 
but Rintoul had scarcely escaped from that dark companion. She 
had been with him in his dreams : he felt her grip him now, with no 
surprise, if with a redoublement of pain. 

It was nearly mid-day when he got down-stairs, and he found no- 
body. His father was out. Millefleurs was out. His breakfast was 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


307 


arranged upon a little table near the fire, his letters laid ready, the 
county newspaper — a little innocent broadsheet — by his plate. But 
he could not take advantage of any of these luxuries ; he swept his 
letters into his pocket, flung the paper from him, then reflected that 
there might be something in it, and picked it up again with trembling 
hands. There was something in it. There was an account of the 
private examination before the sheriff of Mr. John Erskine, of Dal- 
rulzian, on suspicion of being concerned in the death of the late la- 
mented Mr. Torrance, of Tinto. From circumstances which tran- 
spired,” the sheriff, the newspaper regretted to say, had thought it 
right to relegate Mr. Erskine to Dunnottar Jail, there to await the re- 
sult of a more formal inquiry, to be held on the 25th, at Dunearn. 

We have little fear that a gentleman so respected will easily be 
able to clear himself,” it was added ; and a tribute of respect to 
the late Patrick Torrance — a name which, for genial bonhomie and 
sterling qualities, will long be remembered in this county,” wound up 
the paragraph. The greater portion of its readers, already acquainted 
with the news by report, read it with exclamations of concern, or 
cynical, rustic doubt whether John Erskine was so much respected, 
or Pat Torrance as sure of a place in the county’s memory, as the 
Dunearn Sefitinel said ; but all Rintoul’s blood seemed to rush to his 
head and roar like a torrent in his ears as he read the paragraph. 
He could hear nothing but that rushing of excitement and the be- 
wildered, half-maddened thoughts which seemed to accompany it. 
What was he to do ? What wa5 he to do ? 

There was a little interval during which Rintoul literally did not 
know what he was doing. His mind was not prepared for such an 
emergency. He tossed about like a cork upon the boiling stream of 
his own thoughts — helpless, bewildered, driven hither and thither. 
He only came to himself when he felt the damp air in his face, and 
found himself setting out on foot on the road to Dunearn ; the irregu- 
lar lines of the house-tops in front of him, the tall tower of the 
Town-house pointing up to the dull skies, standing out from the 
rest of the buildings like a landmark to indicate what route he was 
to take. When he caught sight of that he came violently to himself, 
and began at once to recover some conscious control over his ac- 
tions. The operations of his mind became clear to him ; his panic^ 
subsided. After all, who could harm John Erskine? He had been 
very foolish ; he had exposed himself to suspicion ; but no doubt a 
gentleman so respcted would be able to clear himself — a gentle- 
man so respected. 

Rintoul repeated the words to himself, as he had repeated the 
names of Millefleurs and Lady Reseda the night before. And what 
would it matter to John Erskine to put off till the 25th his emancipa- 
tion and the full recognition of his innocence ? If he had a bad cold 
it would have the same result — confinement to the house, perhaps to 
his room. What was that ? Nothing ; a trifling inconvenience, that 
any man might be subject to. And there could be no doubt that a 
gentleman so respected — There would be evidence that would 
clear him : it was not possible that any proof could be produced of 


3o8 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


a thing that never happened ; and the whole county, if need be, would 
bear witness to John Erskine’s character — that he was not quarrel- 
some or a brawler ; that there was no motive for any quarrel be- 
tween him, and 

Rintoul’s feet, which had been going rapidly toward D unearn, 
went on slower and slower. He came to a pause altogether about a 
mile from the town. Was it necessary to go any farther ? What 
could he do to-day ? Certainly there would be no advantage to 
Erskine in anything he did to-day. He turned round slowly, and 
went back toward Lindores. Walking that way there was nothing 
but the long sweep of the landscape between him and Tinto, to 
which his eyes could not but turn as he walked slowly on. The flag 
was up again — a spot of red against the dull sky — and the house 
stood out upon its platform with that air of ostentation which fretted 
the souls of the surrounding gentry. Rintoul could not bear the 
sight of it : it smote him with a fierce impatience. Scarcely con- 
scious that his movement of hot and hasty temper was absurd, he 
turned round again to escape it, and set his face toward the emblem 
of severe justice and the law, the tower of the Town-house of Dun- 
earn. When this second monitor made itself visible a kind of dull 
despair took possession of him. His steps were hemmed in on 
every side, and there was no escape. 

It was while he was moving on thus reluctantly, by a sort of 
vague compulsion, that he recognized with amazement Nora Bar- 
rington coming toward him. It was a piece of good-fortune to which 
he had no right. She was the only creature in the world whose 
society could have been welcome to him. They met as they might 
have met in a fairy tale : fairy tales are not over, so long as people 
do meet in this way on the commonplace road. They had neither 
of them thought of any such encounter — he, because his mind was 
too dolorous and preoccupied for any such relief; she, because 
Rintoul seldom came into Dunearn, and never walked, so that no 
idea of his presence occurred to her^ She was going to fulfil a com- 
mission of Miss Barbara’s, and anxious, if possible, to see Edith, 
which was far more likely than Edith’s brother. They were both 
surprised, almost beyond speech ; they scarcely uttered any greet- 
ing. It did not seem strange, somehow, that Rintoul should turn 
and walk with her the way she was going, though it was not his way. 
And now a wonderful thing happened to Rintoul. His ferment of 
thought subsided all at once — he seemed to have sailed into quiet 
seas after the excitement of the headlong current which had almost 
dashed him to pieces. He did not know what it meant. The storm 
ended, and there stole over him a sound as of a hidden brook in 
the leafy month of June.” And Nora felt a softening of sympathetic 
feeling, she did not know why. She was sorry for him. Why 
should she have been sorry for Lord Rintoul? He was infinitely 
better off than she was. She could not account for the feeling, but 
she felt it all the same. She asked him first how Lady Caroline 
was — poor Lady Caroline ! — and then faltered a little, turning to her 
own affairs. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


309 


I hope I shall see Edith before I go away. Do you know when 
they are coming back? I am going home — very soon now,” Nora 
said. She felt almost apologetic — reluctant to say it — and yet it 
seemed necessary to say it. There were many people whom she 
might have met on the road to whom she would not have mentioned 
the fact, but it seemed incumbent upon her now. 

‘‘ Going away ! No, that you must not do — you must not do 
it ! Why should you go away ? ” he cried. 

There are many reasons.” Nora felt that she ought to laugh 
at his vehemence, or that, perhaps, she should be angry ; but she 
was neither the one nor the other — only apologetic, and so sorry for 
him ! ‘‘Of course I always knew I should have to go. Though I 
shall always think it home here, yet it is not home any longer. It is 
a great pity, don’t you think, to live so long in a place which, after 
all, is not your home ? ” 

“ I cannot think it a great pity that you should have lived here,” 
he said. “The thing is, that you must not go. For God’s sake, 
Nora, do not go ! I never thought of that ; it is the last drop. If 
you knew how near I am to the end of my strength you would not 
speak of such a thing to me.” 

“ Lord Rintoul ! I — don’t understand. What can it matter?” 
cried Nora, in her confusion. She felt that she should have taken a 
different tone. He had no right to call her Nora, or to speak as if 
he had anything to do with her coming or going. But the hurried 
tone of passion and terror in his voice overwhelmed her. It was as 
if he had heard of the last misfortune that could overwhelm a man. 

“ Matter ! Do you mean to me ? It may not matter to any one 
else ; to me it is everything,” he said, wildly. “ I shall give in alto- 
gether. I shall not care what I do if you go away.” 

“ Now, Lord Rintoul,” said Nora, her heart beating, but trying 
to laugh as she best could, “ this, you must know, is nonsense. You 
cannot mean to make fun of me, I am sure ; but — I don’t know what 
you mean. We had better say no more about it.” Then she melted 
again. She remembered their last interview, which had gone to her 
heart. “ I know,” she said, “ that you have been in a great deal of 
trouble.” 

“You know,” said Rintoul, “because you feel for me. Nobody 
else knows. Then think what it will be for me if you go away — the 
only creature whom I dare to speak to. Nora, you know very well 
I was always fond of you — from the first — as soon as we met ” 

“ Don’t, don’t. Lord Rintoul ! I cannot get away from you on 
this public road. Have some respect for me. You ought not to say 
such things, nor I to hear.” 

He looked at her, wondering. “ Is it any want of respect to tell 
you that you are the girl I have always wanted to marry ? You may 
not feel the same ; it may be only your kindness. You may refuse 
me, Nora ; but I have always meant it. I have thought it was our 
duty to do the best we could for the girls, but I never gave in to that 
for myself. My father has spoken of this one and that one, but I 
have always been faithful to you. That is no want of respect, though 


310 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


it is a public road. From the time I first knew you I have only 
thought of you.^’ 

What an ease it gave him to say this ! All the other points that 
had so occupied him before seemed to have melted aw'ay in her pres- 
ence. If he had but some one to stand by him — if he had but Nora, 
who felt for him always ! It seemed that everything else would ar- 
range itself, and become less difficult to bear. 

As for Nora, she had known very well that Rintoul was, as he 
said, fond of her. It is so difficult to conceal that. But she thought 
he would ‘‘get over it.” She had said to herself, with some little scorn, 
that he never would have the courage to woo a poor girl like herself 
— a girl without anything. He had a worldly mind though he was 
young, and Nora had never allowed herself to be deluded, she 
thought. 

“ Don’t you believe me ? ” he said, after a moment’s pause, look- 
ing at her wistfully, holding out his hand. 

“Yes, I believe you. Lord Rintoul,” said Nora ; but she took 
no notice of his outstretched hand, though it cost her something to 
be, as she said to herself, “ so unkind.” “ I do believe you ; but 
it would never be permitted, you know. You yourself would not ap- 
prove of it when you had time to think, for you are worldly-minded. 
Lord Rintoul ; and you know you ought to marry — an heiress — some 
one with money.” 

“You have a very good right to say so,” he replied. “ I have 
always maintained that for the girls ; but if you had ever taken any 
notice of me you would have found out that I never allowed it for 
myself. Yes, it is quite true I am worldly-minded ; but I never 
meant to marry money. I never thought of marrying any one but 
you.” 

And now there was a pause again. He did not seem to have asked 
her any question that Nora could answer. He had only made a 
statement to her that she was the only girl he had ever wished to 
marry. It roused a great commotion in her breast. She had al- 
ways liked Rintoul, even when his sisters called him a Philistine ; 
and now, when he was in trouble, under some mysterious shadow, 
she knew not why, appealing to her sympathy as to his salvation, it 
was not possible that the girl should shut her heart against him. 
They walked on together for a few yards in silence, and then she 
said, falteringly, “ I had better go back now — I — did not expect to — 
meet any one.” 

“ Don’t go back without saying something to me. Promise me, 
Nora, that you will not go away. I want you ! I want you ! With- 
out you I should go all wrong. If you saw me sinking in the water 
wouldn’t you put out your hand to help me ? And that is nothing 
to what may happen. Nora, have you the heart to go back without 
saying anything to me ? ” cried Rintoul, once more holding out his 
hand. 

There was nobody visible on the road, up or down. The turrets 
of Lindores peeped over the trees in the distance, like spectators 
deeply interested, holding their breath ; at the other end the long. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


3 ” 


thin tower of the Town-house seemed to pale away into the distance. 
He looked anxiously into her face, as if life and death hung on the 
decision. They had come to a stand-still in the emotionof the mo- 
ment, and stood facing each other, trembling with the same senti- 
ment Nora held back still, but there was an instinctive drawing 
closer of the two figures— irresistible, involuntary. 

‘‘ Your father will never consent,” she said, with an unsteady 
voice ; and my father will never’ allow it against his will. But, Lord 
Rintoul ” 

Not Lord, nor Rintoul,” he said. 

You never liked to be called Robin,” Nora said, with a half 
malicious glance into his face. But poor Rintoul was not in the 
humor to jest. He took her hand, her arm, and drew it through 
his. 

I cannot wait to think about our fathers. I have such need of 
you, Nora ! I have something to tell you that I can tell to no one 
in the world but you. I want my other self to help me. I want my 
wife, to whom I can speak ” 

His arm was quivering with anxiety and emotion. Though Nora 
was bewildered she did not hesitate — what girl would ? — from the 
responsibility thus thrust upon her. To be so urgently wanted is 
the strongest claim that can be put forth upon any human creature. 
Instinctively she gave his arm a little pressure, supporting rather 
than supported, and said, Tell me,” turning upon him freely, 
without blush or faltering, the grave, sweet face of sustaining love. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

Rolls disappeared on the evening of the day on which he had 
that long consultation with Mr. Monypenny. He did not return to 
Dalrulzian that night. Marget, with many blushes and no small ex- 
citement, served the dinner, which Bauby might be said to have 
cooked with tears. If these salt drops were kept out of her sauces 
she bedewed the white apron, which she lifted constantly to her eyes. 
‘‘ Maister John in jyal ! and oor Tammas gone after him I And what 
will I say to his mammaw ? ” Bauby cried. She seemed to fear that 
it might be supposed some want of care on her part which had led 
to this dreadful result. But even the sorrow of her soul did not in- 
terfere with her sense of what was due to her master’s guest. Beau- 
fort’s dinner did not suffer, whateveer else might. It was sdlupu- 
lously cooked, and served with all the care of which Marget was 
capable ; and when it was all over, and everything carefully put aside, 
the women sat down together in the kitchen and had a good cry over 
the desolation of the house. 

The younger maids, perhaps, were not so deeply concerned on 
this point as Bauby, who was an old servant, and considered Dalrul- 


312 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


zian as her home ; but they were all more or less affected by the dis- 
grace, as well as sorry for the young master, who had nae pride,” 
and always a pleasant word for his attendants, in whatever capacity. 
Their minds were greatly affected, too, by the absence of Rolls. 
Not a man in the house but the stranger gentlman ! It was a state 
of affairs which alarmed and depressed them, and proved, above all 
other signs, that a great catastrophe had happened. Beaufort sent 
for the house-keeper after dinner to give her such information as he 
thought necessary ; and Bauby was supported to the door by her sub- 
ordinates, imploring her all the way to keep up her heart. ‘‘ You’ll 
no’ let on to the strange gentleman.” “ Ye’ll keep up a good face, 
and no’ let him see how sair cast down ye are,” they said, one at 
either hand. 

There was a great deal of struggling outside the door, and some 
stifled sounds of weeping, before it was opened, and Bauby appeared, 
pushed in by some invisible agency behind her, which closed the 
door promptly as §oon as she was within. She was not the impor- 
tant person Beaufort had expected to see ; but as she stood there, 
with her large white apron thrown over her arm, and her comely 
countenance, like a sky after rain, lighted up with a very wan and 
uncertain smile, putting the best face she could upon it, Beaufort’s 
sympathy overcame the inclination to laugh which he might have 
felt in other circumstances at the sight of her sudden entrance and 
troubled clinging to the door- way. ‘‘Good-evening,” he said, 
“Mrs. ” 

“ They call me Bauby Rolls, at your service,” said Bauby, with 
a courtesy and suppressed sob. 

“ Mrs. Rolls,” said Beaufort, “ your master may not come home 
for a few days. He asked me to tell you not to be anxious ; that he 
hoped to be back soon ; that there was nothing to be alarmed about.” 

“ Eh ! and was he so kind as think upon me, and him in such 
trouble?” cried Bauby, giving way to her emotions. “But I’m no 
alarmt. No, no; why should I be?” she added, in a trembling 
voice. “ He will be hame, no doubt, in a day or twa, as ye say, sir, 
and glad, glad we’ll a’ be. It’s not that we have any doubt — but 
oh ! what will his mammaw say to me ? ” cried Bauby. After the 
tremulous, momentary stand she had made her tears flowed faster 
than ever. “ There has no such thing happened among the Erskines 
since ever the name was kent in the country-side, and that’s maist 
from the beginning, as it’s written in Scriptures.” 

“ It’s all a mistake ! ” cried Beaufort. 

“ That it is — that it is,” cried Bauby, drying her eyes. And 
then ^he added, with another courtesy, “ I hope you’ll find every- 
thing to your satisfaction, sir, till the maister comes haSie. Tammas 
— that’s the butler, Tammas Rolls, my brother, sir, if ye please — is 
no’ at hame to-night, and you wouldna like a lass aboot to valet ye. 
They’re all young but me. But if you would put out your does to 
brush, or anything that wants doing, outside your door, it shall a’ be 
weel attended to. I’m real sorry there’s no’ another man aboot the 
house ; but a’ that women can do we’ll do, and with good-will.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


313 


‘‘You are very kind, Mrs. Rolls,” said Beaufort. “ I was not 
thinking of myself — you must not mind me. I shall get on very well. 

1 am sorry to be a trouble to you at such a melancholy moment.” 

“ Na, na, sir, not melancholy,” cried Bauby, with her eyes stream- 
ing, “ sin’ ye say, and a’body must allow, that it’s just a mistake : 
we munna be but aboot by such-like trifles. But nae doubt it will be 
livelier and mair pleesant for yoursel’, sir, when Mr. John and Tarn- 
mas they baith come hame. Would you be wanting anything more 
to-night?” 

“ Na, I never let on,” Bauby said when she retired to the ready 
support of her handmaidens outside the door — “ no’ me ; I keepit 
a stout heart, and I said to him, ‘ It’s of nae consequence, sir,’ I said 
— ‘ I’m nane cast down ; it’s just a mistake — everybody kens that 
and that he was to put his things outside his door. He got nothing 
that would go against the credit of the house out of me.” 

But, in spite of this forlorn confidence in her powers of baffling 
suspicion, it was a wretched night that poor Bauby spent. John was 
satisfactorily accounted for, and it was known where he was ; but 
who could say where Rolls might be ? Bauby sat up half through 
the night alone in the great empty kitchen, with the solemn-sounding 
clock and the cat purring loudly by the fire. She was as little used 
to the noises of the night as Lord Rintoul was, and in her agony of 
watching felt the perpetual shock and thrill of the unknown going 
through and through her. She heard steps coming up to the house a 
hundred times through the night and stealing stealthily about the 
doors. “ Is that you, Tammas? ” she said again and again, peering 
out into the night ; but nobody appeared. Nor did he appear next 
day, or the next. 

After her first panic Bauby gave out that he was with his master 
— that she had never expected him — in order to secure him from 
remark. But in her own mind horrible doubts arose. He had al- 
ways been the most irreproachable of men ; but what if, in the shock 
of this catastrophe, even Tammas should have taken to ill ways ? 
Drink — that was the natural suggestion. Who can fathom the in- 
scrutable attractions it has, so that men yield to it who never could 
have been suspected of such a weakness ? Most women of the lower 
classes have the conviction that no man can resist it. Heart- wrung 
for his master, shamed to his soul for the credit of the house, and 
Rolls, too, after successfully combating temptation for all nis re- 
spectable life, yielded to the demon? Bauby trembled, but kept 
her terrors to herself. She said he might come back at any moment 
— he was with his maister. Where else was it likely at such a time 
that he should be ? 

But Rolls was not with his master. He was on the eve of a great 
and momentous act, There was no superstitious alarms about him, 
as about Rintoul, and no question in his mind what to do. Before 
he left Dalrulzian that sad morning he hsd shaped all the possibili- 
ties in his thoughts, and knew what he intended ; and his conversa- 
tion with Mr. Monypenny gave substance and a certain reasonable- 
ness to his resolution. But it was not in his nature by one impetuous 

14 


3*4 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


movement to precipitate affairs. He had never in his life acted 
hastily, and he had occasional tremors of the flesh which chilled his 
impulse and made him pause. But the interval, which was so bitter 
to his master, although all the lookers-on congratulated themselves 
it could do him no harm, was exactly what Rolls wanted in the ex- 
traordinary crisis to which he had come. A humble person, quite 
unheroic in his habits, as in his antecedents, it was scarcely to be 
expected that the extraordinary project which had entered his mind 
should have been carried out with the enthusiastic impulse of ro- 
mantic youth. 

But few youths, however romantic, would have entertained such 
a purpose as that which now occupied Rolls. There are many who 
would risk a great deal to smuggle an illustrious prisoner out of his 
prison. But this was an enterprise of a very different kind. He left 
Mr. Monypenny with his head full of thoughts which were not all 
heroic. None of his inquiries had been made without meaning. 
The self-devotion which was in him was of a sober kind, not the de- 
votion of a Highland clansman, an Evan Dhu ; and though the 
extraordinary expedient he had planned appeared to him more and 
not less alarming than the reality, his own self-sacrifice was not with- 
out a certain calculation and caution too. 

All these things had been seriously weighed and balanced in his 
mind. He had considered his sister’s interest, and even his own 
eventual advantage. He had never neglected these primary objects 
of life, and he did not do so now. But though all was taken into 
account, and carefully considered. Roll’s first magnanimous purpose 
was never shaken ; and the use he made of the important breathing- 
time of these intervening days was characteristic. He had, like 
most men, floating in his mind several things which he intended 
some time ” to do — a vague intention which, in the common course 
of affairs, is never carried out. One of these things was to pay a 
visit to Edinburgh. Edinburgh to Rolls was as much as London and 
Paris and Rome made into one. All his patriotic feelings, all that 
respect for antiquity which is natural to the mind of a Scot, and the 
pride of advancing progress and civilization which becomes a man 
t<>f this century, were involved in his desire to visit the capital of his 
own country. Notwithstanding all the facilities of travel he had 
been there but once before, and that in his youth. With a curious 
solemnity he determined to make this expedition now. It §eemed 
the most suitable way of spending these all-important days, before 
he took the step beyond which he did not know what might happen 
to him. 

A more serious visitor, yet one more determined to see every- 
thing and to take the full advantage of all he saw, never entered that 
romantic town. He looked like a rural elder of the gravest Calvin- 
istic type as he walked, in his black coat and loosely tied white 
neck-cloth, about the lofty streets. He went to Holyrood, and gazed 
with reverence and profound belief at the stains of Rizzio’s blood. 
He mounted up to the Castle, and examined Mons Meg with all the 
care of a historical observer. He even inspected the pictures in the 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


315 


National Collection with unbounded respect, if little knowledge, 
and climbed the Observatory on the Calton Hill. There were many 
spectators about the streets, who remarked him as he walked about, 
looking conscientiously at everything with mingled amazement and 
respect ; for his respectability, his sober curiosity, his unvarying 
seriousness, were remarkable enough to catch an intelligent eye. 
But nobody suspected that Rolls’s visit to Edinburgh was the solemn 
visit of a martyr, permitting himself the indulgence of a last look at 
the scenes that interested him most, ere giving himself up to an un- 
known and mysterious doom. 

On the morning of the 24th, having satisfied himself fully, he re- 
turned home. He wa^ quite satisfied. Whatever might now happen, 
he had fulfilled his intention and realized his dreams ; nothing could 
take away from him the gratification thus secured. He had seen 
the best that earth contained, and now was ready for the worst, 
whatever that might be. Great and strange sights, prodigies un- 
known to his fathers, were befitting and natural objects to occupy him 
at this moment of fate. It was still early when he got back. He stop- 
ped at the Tinto station, not at that which was nearest to Dalruzian, 
and slowly making his way up by the fatal road, visited the scene 
of Torrance’s death. The lodge-keeper called out to him as he turned 
that way that the road was shut up, but Rolls paid no heed. He 
clambered over the hurdles that were placed across, and soon 
reached the scene of the tragedy. The marks of the horse’s 
hoofs were scarcely yet obliterated, and the one fatal point at 
which the terrified brute had dented deeply into the tough clay, 
its last desperate attempt to hold its footing, was almost as dis- 
tinct as ever. 

The terrible incident with which he had so much to do came 
before him with a confused perception of things he had not thought 
of at the time, reviving, as in a dream, before his very eyes. He 
remembered that Torrance lay with his head down the stream — a 
point which had not struck him as important ; and he remembered 
that Lord Rintoul had appeared out of the wood at his cry for help 
so quickly that he could not have been far away when the accident 
took place. What special significance there might be in these facts 
Rolls was not sufficiently clear-headed to see. But he noted them, 
with great gravity, in a little note-book which he had bought for the 
purpose. Then, having concluded everything, he set out solemnly 
on his way to Dunearn. 

It was a long walk. The autumnal afternoon closed in mists ; 
the moon rose up out of a haze — the harvest-mocn — with a little red- 
ness in her light. The landscape was dim in this mellowed vapor, 
and everything subdued. The trees, with all their fading glories, 
hung still in* the haze; the river tinkled with a far-off sound ; the 
lights in the cottages were blurred, and looked like huge vague lamps 
in the milky air, as Rolls trudged on slowly, surely to the place of 
fate. It took him a long time to walk there, and he did not hurry. 
Why should he hurry ? He was sure, went he ever so slowly, to 
arrive in time. As he went along all things that ever he had done 


3i6 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


came up into his mind. His youthful extravagances — for Rolls, too, 
had once been young and silly — his gradual settling into manhood ; 
his aspirations, which he once had, like the best ; his final anchorage, 
which, if not in a very exalted post, nor perhaps what he had once 
hoped for, was yet so respectable ! 

Instead of the long lines of trees, the hedgerows, and cottages 
which marked the road, it was liis own life that Rolls walked through 
as he went on. He thought of the old folk, his father and mother ; 
he seemed to see Bauby and himself and the others coming home in 
just such a misty autumn night from school. Jock, poor fellow ! 
who had gone to sea, and had not been heard of for years ; Willie, 
who ’listed, and nearly broke the old mother’s heart ! How many 
shipwrecks there had been among the lads he once knew ! Rolls 
felt, with a warmth of satisfaction about his heart, how well it was to 
have walked uprightly, to have won through ” the storms of life, 
and to have been a credit and a comfort to all belonging to him. 
If anything was worth living for, that was. Willie and Jock had 
both been cleverer than he, poor fellows ! but they had both dropped, 
and he had held on. Rolls did not want to be proud ; he was quite 
willing to say, If it had not been for the grace of God ! ” but yet 
it gave him an elevating sense of the far superior pleasure it was to 
conquer inclinations in the days of your youth, and to do well, what- 
ever might oppose. 

When the name of Rolls was mentioned anywhere about Dunearn 
it would always be said that two of them had done very well — Tarn- 
mas and Bauby ; these were the two. They had always held by one 
another ; they had always been respectable. But here Rolls 
stopped in his thoughts, taking a long breath. After this, after what 
was going to happen, what would the folk say then ? Would a veil 
drop after to-day upon the unblemished record of his life ? He had 
never stood before a magistrate in all his days — never seen how the 
world looked from the inside of a prison, even as a visitor — had 
nothing to do, nothing to do with that side of the world. He waved 
his hand, as if separating by a mystic line between all that was 
doubtful or disreputable and his own career. But now! Thus 
through the misty, darkening road, with now a red gleam from a 
smithy, and now a softer glimmer from a cottage door, and anon the 
trees standing out of the mists, and the landscape widening about 
him, Rolls came on slowly, very seriously, to Dunearn. The long 
tower of the Town-house, which had seemed to threaten and call 
upon Lord Rintoul, was the first thing that caught the eye of Rolls. 
The moon shone upon it, making a white line of it against the cloudy 
sky. 

Mr. Monypenny was at dinner with his family. They dined at 
six o’clock, which was thought a rather fashionable hour, and the 
comfortable meal was just over. Instead of wine, the good man 
permitted himself one glass of toddy when the weather grew cold. 
He was sitting between the table and the fire, and his wife sat on the 
other side, giving him her company and consolation — for Mr. Mony- 
penny was somewhat low and despondent. He had been moved by 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


317 

Sir James Montgomery’s warm and sudden partisanship and belief 
in John Erskine’s story ; but he was a practical man himself, and he 
could not, he owned, shaking his head, take a sensational view. To 
tell him that there should have been just an encounter, as seemed 
probable — high words between two gentlemen — but that they should 
part with no harm done, and less than an hour after one of them be 
found lying dead at the bottom of the Scaur — that was more than he 
could swallow in the way of a story. To gain credence there should 
have been less or more. Let him hold his tongue altogether — a man 
is never called upon to criminate himself — or let him say all. 

Then you must Just give him a word, my dear, to say nothing 
about it,” said Mrs. Monypenny, who was anxious too. 

But that’s just impossible, my dear, for he blurted it all out to 
the sheriff just ass he told it to me.” 

Do you not think it’s a sign of innocence that he should keep 
to one story, and when it’s evidently against himself, so far as it 
goes ? ” 

A sign of innocence ! ” Mr. Monypenny said, with a snort of 
impatience. He took his toddy very sadly, finding no exhilaration 
in it. Pride will prevent him departing from his story,” he said. 

If he had spoken out like a man, and called for help like a Chris- 
tian, it would have been nothing. All this fuss is his own doing — a 
panic at the moment, and pride — pride now, and nothing more.” 

If ye please,” said the trim maid who was Mr. Monypenny’s 
butler and footman all in one — the table-maid,” as she was called — > 
‘^there’s one wanting to speak to ye, sir. I’ve put him into the 
office, and he says he can wait.” 

One I And who may the one be ? ” said Mr. Monypenny. 

‘‘ Weel, sir, he’s got his hat doon on his brows and a comforter 
aboot his throat, and he looks sore forfoughten, as if he had travelled 
all the day, and no’ a word to throw at a dog ; but I think it’s Mr. 
Rolls, the butler at Dalrulzian.” 

‘‘Rolls!” said Mr. Monypenny. “I’ll go to him directly, 
Jeanie. That’s one thing off my mind. I thought that old body 
had disappeared, rather than bear witness against his master,” he 
said, when the girl had closed the door. 

“But oh! if he’s going to bear witness against his master, it 
would have been better for him to disappear,” said the sympathetic 
wife. “ Nasty body ! to eat folk’s bread, and then to get them into 
trouble.” ^ 

“Whesht with your foolish remarks, my dear: that is clean 
against the law, and it would have had a very bad appearance, and 
prejudiced the court against us,” Mr. Monypenny said as he went 
away. But, to tell the truth, he was not glad ; for Rolls was one of 
the most dangerous witnesses against his master. The agent went 
to his office with a darkened brow. It was not well lighted, for the 
lamp had been turned down, and the fire was low. Rolls rose up 
from where he had been sitting on the edge of a chair as Mr. Mony- 
penny came in. He had unwound his comforter from his neck and 
taken off his hat. His journey, and his troubled thoughts, and the 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


318 

night air had limped and damped him ; the starch was out of his 
tie, and the air of conscious rectitude out of his aspect. He made a 
solemn but tremulous bow, and stood waiting till the door was 
closed and the man of business had thrown himself into a chair. 

‘‘ Well, Rolls, so you have come back ! ” Mr. Monypenny said. 

‘‘Ay, sir. I’ve come back. I’ve brought you the man, Mr. 
Monypenny, that did 

“ Good Lord, Rolls ! that did what ? You take away my breath.” , 

“ I’ll do it more or I’m done. The man that coupit yon poor 
lad Tinto and his muckle horse ower the brae.” 

Mr. Monypenny started to his feet. “ Do you mean to tell me — 
Lord bless us, man ! speak out, can’t ye ? The man that — Are 
ye in your senses. Rolls ? And who may this man be ? ” 

“ You see before you, sir, one that’s nae better than a coward. 

I thought it would blow by. I thought the young master would be 
cleared in a moment. There was nae ill-meaning in my breast. I 
did the best I could for him, and lost na a moment. But my cour- 
age failed me to say it was me ” 

“ You!” cried Monypenny, with a shout that rang through the 
house. 

“ Just me, and no other. And what for no’ me ? Am I steel 
and aim, to take ill words from a man that was no master of mine ? 
Ye can shut me up in your prison — I meant him no hairm — and 
hang me if you like. I’ll no’ let an innocent man suffer instead of 
me. I’ve come to give myself up.” 


CHAPTER XL. 

Dear Mr. Erskine, — I do not know what words to use to tell 
you how pained and distressed we are — I speak for my mother as 
well as myself — to find that nothing has been done to relieve you 
from the consequenoe of such a ridiculous as well as unhappy mis- 
take. We found my brother Robin as anxious as we were, or more'^ 
so, if that were possible, to set matters right at once ; but, unfortu- 
nately, on the day after the funeral took up all thoughts ; and what 
other obstacles intervened next day I cannot rightly tell ; but some- 
thing or other — I am too impatient and pained to inquire what — 
came in the way ; and they tell me now that to-morrow is the day 
of the examination, and that it is of no use now to forestall justice, 
which will certainly set you free to-morrow. Oh, dear Mr. Erskine ! 

I cannot tell you how sick and sore my heart is to think that you 
have been in confinement (it seems too dreadful, too ludicrous, to be 
true) — in confinement all these long days. I feel too angry, too 
miserable, to think of it. I have been crying, as if that would do 
you any good, and rushing up and down abusing everybody. I 
think that in his heart Robin feels it more than any of us : he feels 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


319 


the injustice, the foolishness ; but still he has been to blame, and I 
don’t know how to excuse him. We have not dared to tell poor 
Carry — though indeed 1 need not attempt to conceal from you, who 
have seen so much, that poor Carry, though she is dreadfully excited 
and upset, is not miserable as you would expect a woman to 
be in her circumstances. Could it be expected ? But I don’t 
know what she might do if she heard what has happened to you. 
She might take some step of her own accord, and that would be not 
prudent, I suppose ; so we don’t tell her. Oh, Mr. Erskine ! did 
you ever think how miserable women are ? I never realized it till 
now. Here am I, and still more, here is my mother. She is not a 
child, or an incapable person, I hope ; yet she can do nothing — 
nothing to free you. She is as helpless as if she were a baby. It 
seems to me ridiculous that Robin’s opinion should be worth taking, 
and mine not ; but that is quite a different matter. My mother can 
do nothing but persuade and plead with a boy like Robin to do that 
which she herself, at her age, wise as she is, good as she is, cannot 
do. As you are a man you may think this of no importance ; and 
mamma says it is nature, and cannot be resisted, and smiles. But 
if you suppose she does not feel it — if she could have been your 
bail, or whatever it is, you may be sure you would not have been a 
single night in that place. But all that we can do is to go down on 
our knees to the men who have it in their power, and I, unfortu- 
nately, have not been brought up to go down on my knees. Forgive 
me for this outburst. I am so miserable to think where you are, 
and why, and that I — I mean we can do nothing. What can I say 
to you ? Dear Mr. Erskine, our thoughts are with you constantly. 
My mother sends you her love. 

‘‘ Edith.” 

Edith felt, perhaps, that this was not a very prudent letter. She 
was not thinking of prudence, but of relieving her own mind and 
comforting John Erskine, oppressed and suffering. And besides, 
she was herself in a condition of great excitement and agitation. 
She had been brought back from Tinto, she and her mother, with a 
purpose. Perhaps it was not said to her in so many words, but it 
was certainly conveyed to the minds of the female members of the 
family generally that Millefleurs was at the end of his patience, and 
his suit must have an answer once for all. Carry had been told of 
the proposal by her mother, and had pledged herself to say nothing 
against it. And she had kept her promise, though with difficulty, 
reserving to herself the power to act afterward, if Edith should be 
driven to consent against her will. 

Another of us shall not do it,” Carry said ; oh ! not if I can 
help it.” 

‘‘I do not believe that Edith will doit,” said Lady Lindores ; 
^^but let us not interfere — let us not interfere.” 

Carry, therefore, closed her mouth resolutely ; but as she kissed 
her sister she could not help whispering in her ear, ‘‘Remember 
that I will always stand by you — always, whatever happens I ” 


320 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


This was at Lindores, where Carry, pining to see once more the 
face of the outer world since it had so changed to her, drove her 
mother and sister in the afternoon, returning home alone, with re- 
sults which were not without importance in her life. But in the 
mean time it is Edith with whom we have to do. She reached home 
with the sense of having a certain ordeal before her — something 
which she had to pass through, not without pain — which would bring 
her into direct antagonism with her father, and convulse the house- 
hold altogether. Even the idea that she must more or less vex 
Millefleurs distressed and excited her ; for, indeed, she was quite 
willing to admit that she was ‘Wery fond of” Millefleurs, though it 
was ridiculous to think of him in any other capacity than that of a 
brotherly friend. And it was at this moment she made the discov- 
ery that, notwithstanding the promises of Rintoul and Millefleurs, 
nothing had been done for John. The consequence was, that the 
letter which we have just quoted was at once an expression of sym- 
pathy, very warm, and, indeed, impassioned — more than sympathy, 
indignation, wrath, sentiments which were nothing less than violent 
— and a way of easing her own excited mind which nothing else 
could have furnished. 

I am going to write to John Erskine,’^ she said, with the bold- 
ness produced by so great a crisis ; and Lady Lindores had not in- 
terfered. She said, Give him my love,” and that was all. 

No claim of superior prudence, or even wisdom, has been made 
for Lady Lindores. She had to do the best she could among all 
these imperfections. Perhaps she thought that, having expressed all 
her angry, glowing heart to John in the outflowing of impassioned 
sympathy, the girl would be more likely, in the reaction and fear 
lest she had gone too far, to be kind to Millefleurs ; for who can 
gauge the ebbings and flowings of these young, fantastic souls ? And 
as for Lady Lindores’s private sentiments, she would not have 
forced her daughter a hair’s-breadth ; and she had a good deal of 
pain to reconcile herself to Millefleurs’s somewLat absurd figure as 
the husband of Edith. But yet, when all is said, to give your child 
the chance of being a duchess who would not sacrifice a little ? If 
only Edith could make up her mind to it ! Lady Lindores went no 
farther. Nevertheless, when the important moment approached she 
could not help, like Carry, breathing a word in her child’s ear. 

Remember, there is no better heart in existence,” she said. ‘‘A 
woman could not have a better man.” Edith, in her excitement, 
grasped her mother’s arms with her two hands ; but all the answer 
she gave was a little, nervous laugh. She had no voice to reply. 

You will remember, Millefleurs, that my daughter is very young 
— and — and shy,” said Lord Lindores, on the other side. He was 
devoured by a desire to say, “ If she refuses you, never mind — I will 
make her give in ; ” which, indeed, was what he had said in a kind 
of paraphrase to Torrance. But Millefleurs was not the sort of per- 
son to whom this could be said. He drew himself up a little, and 
puffed out his fine chest, when his future father-in-law (as they 
hoped) made this remark. If Edith was not as willing to have him 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


321 


as he was to have her, she was not for Millefleurs. He almost re- 
sented the interference. 

I have no doubt that Lady Edith and I will quite understand 
each other — whichever way it may be,” Millefleurs added, with a 
sigh, which suited the situation. 

As a matter of fact, he thought there could not be very much 
doubt as to the reply. It was not possible that they could have 
made him stay only to get a refusal at the end — and Millefleurs was 
well aware that the girls were very few who could find it in their 
hearts to refuse a future dukedom. Besides, had it not been a 
friendship at first sight — an immediate liking, if not love? To re- 
fuse him now would be strange indeed. It was not until after din- 
ner that the fated moment came. Neither Lord Lindores nor Rin- 
toul came into the drawing-room ; and Lady Lindores, having her 
previous orders, left the field clear almost immediately after the en- 
trance of the little hero. There was nothing accidental about it, as 
there generally is, or appears to be, about the scene of such events. 
The great drawing-room, all softly lighted and warm, was never 
abandoned in this way in the evening. Edith stood before the fire, 
clasping her hands together nervously, the light falling warm upon 
her black dress and the gleams of reflection from its jet trimmings. 
They had begun to talk before Lady Lindores retreated to the back- 
ground, to look for something, as she said ; and Millefleurs allowed 
the subject they were discussing to come to an end before he entered 
upon anything more important. He concluded his little argument 
with the greatest propriety, and then he paused and cleared his 
throat. 

‘‘ Lady Edith,” he said, ‘‘you may not have noticed that we are 
alone.” He folded his little hands together, and put out his chest, 
and made all his curves more remarkable, involuntarily, as he said 
this. It was his way of opening a new subject, and he was not car- 
ried out of his way by excitement, as Edith was. 

She looked round breathlessly and said, “ Has mamma gone?” 
with a little gasp — a mixture of agitation and shame. The sense 
even that she was false in her pretence at surprise — for did she not 
know what was coming ? — agitated her still more. 

“ Yeth,” said Millefleurs, drawing out his lisp into a sort of sigh. 
“ I have asked that I might see you by yourself. You will have 
thought, perhaps, that for me to stay here when the family was in — 
affliction was, to say the least, bad taste, don’t you know.” 

“ No,” said Edith, falteringly, “ I did not think so ; I thought 
>> 

“ That is exactly so,” said Millefleurs, seriously. “ It is a great 
bore, to be sure ; but you and I are not like two nobodies. The truth 
is, I had to speak to your father first — it seemed to be the best thing 
to do — and now I have been waiting to have this chance. Lady 
Edith, I hope you are very well aware that I am — very fond of you, 
don’t you know. I always thought we were fond of one another 
>> 

“ You were quite right, Lord Millefleurs,” cried Edith, nervous- 

14* 


322 


THE LADIES LIN DO RES, 


ly. You have been so nice — you have been like another brother 


Thanks ; but it was not quite in that way.” Here Millefleurs 
put out his plump hand and took hers in a soft, loose clasp — a clasp 
which was affectionate but totally unimpassioned. He patted the 
hand with his fingers as he held it in an encouraging, friendly way. 

That’s very pleasant, but it doesn’t do, don’t you know. People 
would have said we were, one of us, trifling with the other. I told 
Lord Lindores that there was not one other girl in the world — that 
is, in this country — whom I ever could wish to marry but you. He 
was not displeased, and I have been waiting ever since to ask. 
Don’t you think we might marry, Lady Edith ? I should like it 
if you would. I hope I have not been abrupt, or anything of that 
sort.” 

Oh no! You are always considerate, always kind,” cried 
Edith. But, dear Lord Millefleurs, listen to me. I don’t think it 
would do ” 

No ? ” he said, with rather a blank air, suddenly pausing in the 
soft pat of encouragement he was giving her upon the hand ; but he 
did not drop the hand, nor did Edith take it from him. She had 
recovered her breath and her composure : her heart fluttered no 
more. The usual half-laugh with which she was in the habit of talk- 
ing to him came into her voice. 

No ? ” said Millefleurs. But, indeed, I think it would do very 
nicely. We understand each other very well ; we belong to the same 
milieu ” (how pleased Lord Lindores would have been to hear this, 
and how amazed the duke !), ^^ and we are fond of each other. We 
are both young, and you are extremely pretty. Dear Edith — mayn’t 
I call you so ? — 1 think it would do admirably, delightfully ! ” 

Certainly you may call me so,” she said, with a smile, but 
on the old footing, not any new one. There is a difference between 
being fond of any one and being — in love.” Edith said this with a 
hot, sudden blush ; then, shaking her head, as if to shake that other 
sentiment off, added, by way of reassurring herself, Don’t you 
know ? ” with a tremulous laugh. Little Millefleurs’s countenance 
grew more grave. He was not in love with any passion ; still, he 
did not like to be refused. 

Excuse me, but 1 cannot laugh,” he said, putting down her 
hand ; ‘‘ it is too serious. 1 do not see the difference, for my 
part. I have always thought that falling in love was a rather vulgar 
way of describing the matter. I think we have ^1 that is wanted 
for a happy marriage. If you do not love me so much as I love you, 
there is no great harm in that ; it will come in time. I feel sure 
that I should be a very good husband, and you ” 

Would not be a good wife — oh no, no ! ” cried Edith, with a 
little shudder, shrinking from him ; then she turned toward him 
again with a sudden compunction. You must not suppose it is un- 
kindness ; but think — two people who have been like brother — and 
sister.” 

The only time,” said Millefleurs, still more seriously, that I 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


323 


ever stood in this position before, it was the relationship of mother 
and son that was suggested to me — with equal futility, if you will 
permit ^me to say so — brother and sister means little. So many 
people think they feel so till some moment undeceives them. I 
think I may safely say that my feelings have never — except, per- 
haps, at the very first — been those of a brother — any more,” he ad- 
ded, in a parenthesis, ‘‘ than they were ever those of a son.” 

What Edith said in reply was the most curious request ever 
made, perhaps, by a girl to the man who had just asked her to mar- 
ry him. She laid her hand upon his arm and said, softly, ‘‘ Tell 
me about her ! ” in a voice of mild coaxing, just tempered with 
laughter. Millefleurs shook his head, and relieved his plump 
bosom with a little sigh. 

Not at this moment, dear Edith. This affair must first be ar- 
ranged between us. You do not mean to refuse me ? Reflect a 
moment. I spoke to your father more than a week ago. It was the 
day before the death of poor Mr. Torrance. Since then I have waited, 
hung up, don’t you know, like Mohammed’s coffin. When such a 
delay does occur it is generally understood in one way. When a 
lady means to say No it is only just to say it at once — not to permit 
a man to commit himself, and leave him, don’t you know, hanging 
on.” ^ 

Dear Lord Millefleurs —^ ^ - ” 

“My name is Wilfrid^” he said, with a little pathos ; “no one 
ever calls me by it : in this country not even my mother calls me by 
my name.” 

“ In America,” said Edith, boldly, “you were called so by — the 
other lady.” 

He waved his hand. “ By many people — ” he said. “ But never 
mind. Never by any one here. Call me Wilfrid, and I shall feel 
happier ” 

“ I was going to say that if you had spoken to me I should have 
told you at once^” Edith said. “ When you understand me quite, 
then we shall call each other anything you please. But that cannot 
be. Lord Millefleurs. Indeed you must understand me. I like you 
very much. I should be dreadfully sorry if I thought what I am say- 
ing would really hurt you, but it will not after the first minute. I 
think you ought to marry her ” 

“ Oh, there would be no hinderance there,” said Millefleurs : 
“that was quite unsuitable. I don’t suppose it could ever have 
been. But with you,” he said, turning to take her hand again, 
“ dear Edith ! everything is as it should be — it pleases your people, 
and it will delight mine. They will all love you ; and for my part I 
am almost as fond of dear Lady Lindores as I am of you. Nothing 
could be more jolly (to use a vulgar word — for I hate slang) than 
the life we should lead. I should take you over there, don’t you 
know, and show you everything, as far as San Francisco, if you like. 
I know it all. And you would form my opinions, and make me 
good for something when we came back. Come ! let it be settled 
so,” said Millefleurs, laying his other hand on Edith’s, and patting it 


324 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


softly. It was the gentlest, fraternal, affectionate clasp. The 
hands lay within each other without a thrill in them — the young 
man kind as any brother, the girl in nowise afraid. 

Do you think,” said Edith, with a little solemnity, from which 
it cost her some trouble to keep out a laugh, that if I could con- 
sent (which I cannot : it is impossible), do you think it would not be 
a surprise, and perhaps a painful one, to — the other lady — if she 
heard you were coming to America so f ” 

Lord Millefieurs raised his eyes for a moment to the ceiling, and 
he sighed. It was a tribute due to other days and other hopes. I 
think not,” he said. She was very disinterested. Indeed, she 
would not hear of it. She said she regarded me as a mother, don’t 
you know. There is something very strange in these things,” he 
added, quickly forgetting (as appeared) his position as lover, and 
putting Edith’s hand unconsciously out of his. ‘‘There was not, 
you would have supposed, any chance of such feelings arising. And 
^ in point of fact it was not suitable at all. Still, had she not seen so 
very clearly what was my duty ” 

“ I know now,” said Edith ; “it was the lady who — advised you 
to come home.” 

He did not reply directly. “ There never was anybody with such 
a keen eye for duty,” he said. “ When she found out I hadn’t writ- 
ten to my mother, don’t you know, that was when she pulled me up. 
‘ Don’t speak to me,’ she said. She would not hear a word. I was 
just obliged to pack up. But it was perfectly unsuitable. I never 
could help acknowledging that.” 

“ Wilfrid,” said Edith, half in real, half in fictitious enthusiasm 
— for it served her purpose so admirably that it was difficult not to 
assume a little more than she felt — “ how can you stand there and 
tell me that there was anything unsuitable in a girl who could behave 
so finely as that ? Is it because she had no stupid little title in her 
family, for example ? You have titles enough for half a dozen, I 
hope. Are you not ashamed to speak to one girl of another like 
that ? ” 

“ Thank you,” said Millefieurs, softly — “ thank you. You are a 
darling. All you say is quite true. But she is not — exactly a girl. 
The fact is — she is older than — my people would have liked. Of 
course that was a matter of complete indifference to me.” 

“ 0-oh ! of course,” said Edith, faintly ; this is a point on which 
girls are not sympathetic. She was very much taken aback by the 
intimation. But she recovered her courage, and said, with a great 
deal of interest, “ Tell me all about her now.” 

“Are you quite decided?” he said, solemnly. “Edith — let us 
pause a little — don’t condemn me, don’t you know, to disappoint- 
ment and heartbreak, and all that, without sufficient cause. I feel 
sure we should be happy together. I for one would be the happiest 
man ” 

“I could not — I could not !” she cried, with a sudden little 
effusion of feeling, quite unintentional. A flush of hot color ran 
over her, her eyes filled with tears. She looked at him involuntarily, 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


325 


almost unconscious, with a certain appeal, which she herself only 
half understood, in her eyes. But Millefleurs understood, not at the 
half word, as the French say, but at the half thought which he dis- 
covered in the delicate, transparent soul looking at him through 
those two involuntary tears. He gazed at her for a moment with a 
sudden startled enlargement of his own keen little eyes. ‘‘To be 
sure ! ’’ he cried. “ How was it I never thought of that before ? ” 

Edith felt as if she had made some great confession, some cruel 
admission, she did not know what. She turned away from him, 
trembling. This half comic interview suddenly turned in a moment 
to one of intense and overwhelming, almost guilty emotion. What 
had she owned to ? What was it he made so sure of? She could 
not tell. But now it was that Millefleurs showed the perfect little 
gentleman he was. The discovery was not entirely agreeable to his 
amour-propre, and wounded his pride a little ; but in the meantime 
the necessary thing was to set Edith at her ease so far as was possi- 
ble, and make her forget that she had in any way committed her- 
self. What he did was to set a chair for her, with her back to the 
lamp, so that her countenance need not be revealed for the moment, 
and to sit down by her side with confidential calmnesss. “ Since 
you wish it,” he said, “ and are so kind to take an interest in her, 
there is nothing I should like so much as to tell you about my dear 
Miss Nelly Field. I should like you to be friends.” 

Would it were possible to describe the silent hush of the house 
while these two talked in this preposterous manner in the solitude 
so carefully prepared for them ! Lord Lindores sat breathless in 
his library, listening for every sound, fixing his eyes upon the door, 
feeling it inconceivable that such a simple matter should take so 
long a time to accomplish. Lady Lindores, in her chamber, still 
more anxious, foreseeing endless struggles with her husband if Mille- 
fleurs persevered, and almost worse, his tragical wrath and dis- 
pleasure if Millefleurs (as was almost certain) accepted at once Edith’s 
refusal, sat by her fire in the dark, and cried a little,, and prayed, 
almost without knowing what it was that she asked of God. Not, 
surely, that Edith should sacrifice herself? Oh no ; but that all 
might go well — that there might be peace and content. She did not 
dictate how that was to be. 

After a while both father and mother began to raise their heads, 
to say to themselves that unless he had been well received Millefleurs 
would not have remained so long oblivious of the passage of time. 
This brought a smile upon Lord Lindores’s face. It dried his wife’s 
eyes, and made her cease praying. Was it possible ? Could Edith, 
after all, have yielded to the seductions of the dukedom ? Her 
mother felt herself struck to the heart by the thought, as if an arrow 
had gone into her. Was not she pleased ? It would delight her 
husband, it would secure family peace, it would give Edith such a 
position, such prospects, as far exceeded the utmost hopes that 
could have been formed for her. 

Somehow, however, the first sensation of which Lady Lindores 
was conscious was a humiliation deep and bitter. Edith, too ! she 


326 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


said to herself, with a quivering smile upon her lips, a sense of heart- 
sickness and downfall within her. She had wished it, surely— she 
had felt that to see a child a duchess would be a fine thing, a thing 
worth making a certain sacrifice for ; and Millefleurs had nothing in 
him to make a woman fear for her daughter’s happiness. But women, 
everybody knows, are inaccessible to reason. It is to be doubted 
whether Lady Lindores had ever in her life received a blow more 
keen than when she made up her mind that Edith was going to do 
the right thing, the prudent, wise thing, which would secure family 
peace to her mother, and the most dazzling future to herself. 

When a still longer interval had elapsed, and no one came to tell 
her of the great decision, which evidently must have been made. 
Lady Lindores thought it best to go back to the drawing-room, in 
which she had left Edith and her lover. To think that Edith should 
have found the love-talk of Millefleurs so delightful after all as to 
have forgotten how time passed, and everything but him and his 
conversation, made her mother smile once more, but notvery happily. 
When she entered the drawing-room she saw the pair at the other 
end of it, by the fire, seated close together, he bending forward, 
talking eagerly, she leaning toward him, her face full of smiles and 
interest. They did not draw back or change their position, as lovers 
do, till Lady Lindores, much marvelling, came close up to them, 
when Millefleurs, still talking, jumped up to find a chair for her. 

And that was the last time we met,” Millefleurs was saying, too 
much absorbed in his narrative to give it up. An idea of duty 
like that, don’t you know, leaves nothing to be said.” 

Lady Lindores sat down, and Millefleurs stood in front of the two 
ladies, with his back to the fire, as Englishmen love to stand. 
There was a pause — of extreme bewilderment on the part of the new- 
comer. Then Millefleurs said, in his round, little, mellifluous voice, 
folding his hands, I have been telling dear Edith of a great crisis 
in my life. She understands me perfectly, dear Lady Lindores. I 
am very sorry to tell you that she* will not marry me ; but we are 
friends for life.” 


CHAPTER XLL 

Carry drove away from Lindores in the afternoon sunshine, lean- 
ing back in her corner languidly watching the slanting light upon the 
autumnal trees, and the haze in which the distance was hid, soft, 
blue, and ethereal, full of the poetry of nature. She had about her 
that soft languor and delicious sense of freedom from pain which, 
makes convalescence so sweet. She felt as if sae had got over a 
long and painful illness, and, much shattered and exhausted, was 
yet getting better, in a heavenly exemption from suffering and per- 
fect rest. This sense of recovery, indeed, is very different from the 
languor and exhaustion of sorrow ; and yet, without any intention of 
hers, it veiled, with a sort of innocent hypocrisy, those feelings which 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


327 


were not in consonance with her supposed desolation and the mourn- 
ing of her widowhood. Her behavior was exemplary, and her as- 
pect all that it ought to be, everybody felt ; and though the country- 
side was well aware that she had no great reason to be inconsolable, 
it yet admired and respected her for appearing to mourn. Her fra- 
gility, her paleness, her smile of gentle exhaustion and worn out 
looks, did her unspeakable credit with all the good people about. 
They were aware that she had little enough to mourn for, but there 
are occasions on which Nature demands hypocrisy. 

Any display of satisfaction at another’s death is abhorrent to man- 
kind. Carry, in her convalescence, was no hypocrite, but she got 
the credit of it, and was all the better thought of. People were al- 
most grateful to her for showing her husband this mark of respect. 
After all, it is hard indeed when a man goes out of this world without 
even the credit of a woman’s tears. But Carry had no sorrow in 
her heart as she drove away from the door of her former home. It 
had not been thought right that she should go in. A widow of not yet a 
fortnight’s standing may, indeed, drive out to get a little air, which 
is necessary for her health ; but she cannot be supposed to be able 
to go into a house, even if it is her father’s. She was kissed tenderly 
and comforted as they took leave of her. 

‘‘ My darling Carry, Edith and I will drive over to see you to- 
morrow^ ; and then you have the children,” her mother said, herself 
half taken in by Carry’s patient smile, and more than half desirous 
of being taken in. 

Oh yes, I have the children,” Carry said. But in her heart she 
acknowledged, as she drove away, that she did not even want the 
children. 

When one has suffered very much the mere absence of pain be- 
comes a delicious fact, a something actual, which breeds delight into 
the soul. Even when your back aches or your head aches habitually, 
to be free of that for half an hour is heaven ; and Carry had the be- 
wildering happiness before her of being free of it forever. The world 
bore a different aspect for her ; the air blew differently, the clouds 
floated with another motion. To look out over the plain, and away 
to the blue hills in the distance, with all their variety of slopes, and 
the infinite sweet depths of color and atmosphere about them, was 
beyond all example delightful, quite enough to fill life and make it 
happy. 

In the heavenly silence she began to put her thoughts into 
words, as in her youth she had done always when she was deeply 
moved. Oh, who are they that seek pleasure in the world, in society, 
in feasts and merry-makings, when it is here, at their hand, ready 
for their enjoyment ? This was her theme. The sunset upon the 
hills was enough for any one ; he who could not find his happiness 
in that, where would he find it ? Carry lay back in her corner, and 
felt that she would like to kiss the soft air that blew upon her, and 
send salutations to the trees and the sun. What could any one want 
more ? The world was so beautiful, pain had gone out of it, and all 
the venom and the misery. To rest from everything, to lie still and 


328 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


get better, was of itself too exquisite. Carry had not for a long time 
written any of those little poems which Edith and Nora and some 
other choice readers had thought so lovely. Her tears had grown 
too bitter for such expression — and to feel herself flow forth once 
again into the sweet difficulties of verse was another delight the more. 
She was all alone, in deep weeds of widowhood, and almost every 
voice within twenty miles had within the last fortnight more than 
once uttered the words Poor Lady Car ! ” but oh, how far from 
poor she felt herself ! In what exquisite repose and peace was she 
mending of all her troubles ! 

Sometimes she would ask herself, with a wonder which enhanced 
the sweetness, was it really all over — all over — come to an end, this 
nightmare which had blotted out heaven and earth ? Was it pos- 
sible ? never to come back to her again round any corner, never to 
have any more power over her. Henceforward to be alone, alone — 
what word of joy ! It is a word which has different meanings to dif- 
ferent people. To many in Carry’s position it is the very knell of 
their lives — to her there was music in it beyond the power of words 
to say. Her weakness had brought that misery on herself ; and now, 
was it possible that she was to fare so much better than she deserved, 
to get rid of it forever ? She drew a long breath and imagined how 
different things might have been ; she might have lived to be an old 
woman under that yoke ; she might never have got free— her mind, 
nor her imagination, nor her life. She shuddered to think what might 
have been. But it was over, ended, finished, and she was free — 
done with it forever. She had not deserved this ; it was a happiness 
which it was scarcely possible to realize. Poor Carry, futile even in 
her anticipations of relief ! It never occurred to her that the two 
little children to whom she was returning — now all her own, she was 
so foolish to think — were pieces of Torrance, not done with, never 
to be done with as long as her life lasted ; but she was as 
unconscious of that, as incapable of thinking of any harm to 
come from those round-faced, stolid babies, as — any other mother 
could be. 

Thus she was driving along, very happy, very still, exhausted 
and languid and convalescent, with all the beautiful world before 
her, full of consolation and peace, when Trouble set out to meet her 
upon the way. Poor Lady Car ! she had suffered so much — did not 
life owe her a little quiet, a breathing moment — long enough to get 
better in — quite better, as we say in Scotland — and get the good of 
her deliverance ? Indeed it seemed so ; but to different souls dif- 
ferent experiences. Some would have escaped, would have gone 
on softly, never quite getting over the dismal preface of their life to 
the sight of spectators, but in reality tasting the sweetness of repose, 
till the inevitable moment came, as it does to all, when the warfare 
has to be taken up again. But to Carry there was left no interval 
at all. She, so delicate, so sensitive, all her nerves so highly strung, 
quiet would have been everything for her. But quiet she was not 
to have. 

Trouble set out from the gate of Dalrulzian while she rolled softly 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


329 


along to meet it, unconscious, thinking of nothing which could justify 
that sudden apparition — not a feeling in her going out toward it, or 
provoking the sight. The trouble which thus approached Lady Car 
was in the shape of Edward Beaufort, his tall figure slightly stoop- 
ing, yet in the full vigor of manhood, his countenance gently de- 
spondent, an habitual sigh hanging, as it were, about him ; the ends 
of his luxuriant beard lightly moved by the breeze. He walked 
somewhat slowly, musing, with nothing particular to do, and Carry 
caught sight of him for some time before they met. She gave a low 
cry and sat upright. Her convalescent heart, lying so still, so sweet- 
ly silent and even in its gentle beatings, like a creature that had 
been hurt and was coming softly to itself, leaped up with a bound 
and a spring, and began to go again like a wild thing, leaping, pal- 
pitating, pulling at its leash. The first movement was terror — for 
though her tyrant was gone, the tradition of him was still upon her, 
and she could not get rid of the instinct all at once. My God ! ” 
she said to herself in the silence, clasping her hands, Edward ! ” 
with something of the wild passion of alarm which John Erskine had 
once seen. But then all in a moment again this terror subsided. Her 
sense of convalescence and repose flew away like the wind. A wild 
flood of joy and happiness rushed into her heart. Edward ! ” — for 
the first time, feeling herself carried away by a drowning and dazzling 
tide of life, which blinded and almost sutfocated her. Carry realized 
in one moment what it meant to be free. The effect was too tre- 
mendous for any thought of prudence, any hesitation as to what his 
sentiments might be, or what was suitable to her own position. She 
called to the coachman to stop, not knowing what she did, and, with 
her head and her hands stretched out from the window, met him as 
he came up. 

For the first moment there was not a word said between them, in 
the excess of emotion, he standing below, she looking out from 
above, her white face surrounded by the widow’s livery of woe, but 
suddenly flushed and glowing with life and love, and a kind of tri- 
umphant ecstasy. She had forgotten what it meant — she had not 
realized all that was in it ; and now it burst upon her. She could 
not think, scarcely breathe, but held out her hands to him, with that 
look beyond words to describe. And he took them in the same way, 
and bent down his face over them, silent, not saying a word. The 
coachman and footman on the box thought it was excess of feeling 
that made this meeting so silent. They were sorry for their mistress, 
who was not yet able to meet any one with composure ; and the low, 
brief conversation that followed sounded to them like condolence and 
sympathy. How astounded the men would have been, and the still 
landscape around them, with its houses hidden in the trees, and all 
its silent observers about, had they known what this colloquy actually 
was ! 

Edward ! ” was the first word that was said — and then, ‘‘ Carry I 
Carry ! But I ought not to call you so.” 

Oh, never call me anything else I ” she cried ; I could not 
endure another name from you ! Oh, can you forgive me, have you 


330 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


forgiven me ? I have paid for it — bitterly, bitterly I And it was not 
my fault.” 

I never blamed you. I have forgiven you always. My suffer- 
ing is not older than my forgiveness.” 

You were always better than I ; ” and then she added, eagerly, 
not pausing to think, carried on by that new tide that caught her. 
It is over ; it is all over now.” 

It was on his lips to say ‘‘ Thank God ! ” but he reflected, and 
did not say it. He had held her hands all the time. There was 
nobody to see them, and the servants on the box were sympathetic 
and silent. Then he asked, “ Will they let me go to you now ? ” 

You will not ask any leave,” she said, hastily — no leave ! 
There are so many things I have to say to you — to ask your pardon. 
It has been on my heart to ask your pardon every day of my life. I 
used to think if I had only done that I could die.” 

No dying now,” he said, with her hands in his. 

Ah ! ” she cried, with a little shudder, but it is by dying I am 
here.” 

He looked at her pitifully with a gaze of sympathy. He was pre- 
pared to be sorry if she was sorry. Even over his rival’s death Ed- 
ward Beaufort felt himself capable of dropping a tear. He could go 
so far as that. Self-abnegation is very good in a woman, but in a 
man it is uncalled for to this degree. He could put himself out of 
the question altogether, and look at her with the deepest sympathy, 
ready to condole if she thought proper. He was not prepared for 
the honesty of Carry’s profound sense of reopening life. 

‘‘You have had a great deal to bear,” he said, with a vague in- 
tention of consoling her. He was thinking of the interval that had 
elapsed since her husband’s death ; but she was thinking of the dis- 
mal abyss before, and of all that was brought to a conclusion by that 
event. 

“ More than you can imagine— more than you could believe,” 
she said ; then paused, with a hot blush of shame, not daring to look 
him in the face. All that she had suffered, was not that a mountain 
between them ? She drew her hands out of his, and, shrinking away 
from him, said, “ When you think of that you must have a horror of 
me.” 

“ I have a horror of you ! ” he said, with a faint smile. He put 
his head closer as she drew back. He was changed from the young 
man she had known. His beard, his mature air, the lines in his 
face, the gentle, melancholy air which he had acquired, were all new 
to her. Carry thought that no face so compassionate, so tender, had 
ever been turned upon her before. A great pity seemed to beam 
in the eyes that were fixed with such tenderness upon her. Perhaps 
there was not in him any such flood of rosy gladness as had illumi- 
nated her. The rapture of freedom was not in his veins. But what 
a look that was ! A face to pour out all your troubles to — to be sure 
always of sympathy from. This was what she thought. 

Then, in the tremor of blessedness and overwhelming emotion, 
she awoke to remember that she was by the roadside — no place for 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


33 * 


talk like this. Carry had no thought of what any one would say. 
She would have bidden him come into the carriage and carried him 
away with her — her natural support, her consoler. There was no 
reason in her suddenly roused and passionate sense that never again 
must it be in any one’s power to separate them. Nor did she think 
that there could be any doubt of his sentiments, or whether he might 
still retain his love for her, notwithstanding all she had done to cure 
him of it. For the moment she was out of herself. They had been 
parted for so long — for so many miserable years — and now they were 
together. That was all — restored to each other. But still, the first 
moment of overwhelming agitation over, she had to remember. I 
have so much to tell you ! ” she cried ; but it cannot be here.” 

When shall I come ? ” he said. 

Carry’s impulse was to say Now, now ! ” It seemed to her as 
if parting with him again would be tempting fate. For the first time 
since she had got her freedom she put forth all her powers con- 
sciously, and controlled herself. It seemed to her the utmost stretch 
of self-denial when she said, ‘‘ To-morrow,” with a long-drawn 
breath, in which her whole being seemed to go out to him. The 
next moment the carriage was rolling along as it had done before, 
and Carry had dropped back into her corner, but not as she was be- 
fore. Her entire world was changed. The glow of life which had 
come back to her was something which she had not known for years. 
It belonged to her early bloom, when she had no thought of ever 
being Lady Car or a great personage. It belonged to the time when 
Edward Beaufort was the lord of the ascendant, and nobody thought 
him beneath the pretensions of Carry Lindores. The intervening 
time had rolled away and was no more. She put her hands over her 
eyes to shut out everything but this that had been, and was, in spite 
of all obstacles. Her heart filled all the silence with tumultuous, 
joyful beating. It was all over, the prison-time of her life — the evil 
time — gone like a bad enchantment — past and over, leaving no sign. 
It seemed to her that she could take up her life where she laid it 
down six years ago, and that all would be as though this interruption 
had never been. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

No morning ever broke which brought more exciting expectations 
than the morning of the 25th of September in the various houses 
in which our history lies. Of the dozen people whose interests were 
concerned, not one but awoke early to the touch of the warm autum- 
nal sunshine, and took up, with a start of troubled energy, painful or 
otherwise, the burden of existence, of which for a few hours they 
had been partially oblivious. The women had the best of it, which 
is not usual ; although in the mingled feelings of Lady Lindores, 
glad that her child had carried out her expectations, yet half sorry, 


332 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


now it was over, that Edith had not accepted the great matrimonial 
prize put into her hands — and in those of Edith herself, happy in 
having so successfully surmounted the incident Millefleurs, yet 
greatly disturbed and excited about the coming events as concerned 
John Erskine, and doubtful whether she ought to have written to him 
so very frank and undisguised a letter — there was as much pain as 
pleasure. 

As for Carry, when she woke in the gloomy magnificence of Tinto, 
and all the warmth and glowing hopes of yesterday came back to 
her mind with a bound, there was nothing in her thoughts which pre- 
vented her lying still upon her pillows and letting the flood of light 
sweep into her heart, in a luxury of happiness and peace which was 
past describing. She did not for the moment even need to think of 
the meeting to come. Blessedness seemed suddenly to have become 
habitual to her once more. She woke to the delight of life. Bliss 
was it in that dawn to be alive.” The past had flown away like a 
dream; was it a dream altogether, a nightmare, some dark shadow 
of fear and pain, from which the oppressed soul, having at last 
awoke, was free? 

Beaufort at Dalrulzian got up a similar feeling. He had been 
obliged to find himself something of a failure ; but he, too, seemed 
to be restored to the hopes and the standing-ground of youth. He 
would now have no excuse to himself for his absence of energy and 
ambition. His youthful strength was still unimpaired, though he 
had made so much less of it than he ought. And now here were all 
the occasions for a fresh beginning — sympathy to support him and to 
inspire him. Not only would he be happy, but at last he would do 
something — he would carry out all hopes and prophecies of him now. 

This was the brighter side ; but in Lindores the sentiments of 
the chief personages in the house were not so pleasant. Lord Lin- 
dores was angry and humiliated, furious with his daughter, and still 
more with his wife, who, he had no doubt, with her ridiculous ro- 
mance, had filled the girl’s head with follies — and not much less with 
Millefleurs, who had thus suffered himself to be foiled. But his dis- 
turbed cogitations were as nothing to the tumult of pain and alarm 
which rose up in Rintoul’s mind when he opened his eyes to the 
morning light. When the young man awoke he had first a moment 
of bewildered consideration — what was the meaning of the confused 
sense of disaster of which he became instantly conscious — and then 
he sprang from his bed, unable to rest, eager for movement or any- 
thing which would counterbalance the fever of the crisis. This was 
the day. He could delay no longer, he could not trifle with the situa- 
tion, or leave things to chance after to-day. It would be a new be- 
ginning in his life. Hitherto all had gone on serenely enough. He 
had gone with the stream, he had never set himself in opposition to 
the world or its ways, never done anything to draw men’s eyes upon 
him. But after to-day all would be changed. To-morrow his name 
would be telegraphed over all the world in newspaper paragraphs ; 
to-morrow every fellow he had ever known would be saying, ‘‘Rin- 
toul! what Rintoul ? You never can mean ” 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


333 


No, they would all feel it to be impossible. Rintoul, who was so 
safe, who never got into scrapes, whom they even laughed at as a 
canny Scot, though he did not feel a Scot at all. It would be in- 
credible to all who had ever known him. And what a scandal, what 
an outcry it would make ! In his own family even ! Rintoul knew 
that Carry was not a broken-hearted widow, and yet it seemed to 
him that, after she knew, she would never speak to him again. It 
made his heart sink to think of all the changes that in a moment, in 
the twinkling of an eye, would become inevitable. His father, with 
what rage, and misery, and confusion of all his plans and hopes, 
would he hear it ! with what consternation his mother and sister ! 
As for himself, everything would be interrupted and set aside, his 
life in every way turned upside-down, his ambition checked, his 
hopes destroyed. 

And all this to save John Erskine from a certain amount of incon- 
venience ! That was how at least it appeared to him — really from in- 
convience, nothing more. John was not a man of rank, like himself, 
full in the eyes of the world — he was not responsible to a proud and 
ambitious father. A short term of imprisonment to him would be 
like a disagreeable visit, nothing more. Many people had to spend 
a certain part of every year, for instance, with an old uncle or aunt, 
somebody from whom they had expectations. It really would be 
little or nothing more than this. And it was not as if it had been 
anything disgraceful. The county would not think the worse of him ; 
it was an accident, a thing that might have - happened to any one. 
But to Rintoul how much more terrible ! he, the brother-in-law of 
the man, with a sort of interest in his death. He would have to leave 
his regiment. All his projects for life would be interrupted. By the 
time he would be free again he would be forgotten in society, and his 
name would be Jietri forever. These thoughts set him pacing about 
his room with hasty steps, the perspiration standing on his forehead. 
All to save John Erskine, who was just as much to blame as he was 
— for the first quarrel was the one which had excited that unfortunate 
fellow — all to save from a little inconvenience another man ! 

Perhaps if he had been placed simply in front of the question 
whether he would let another man be punished for what he had done, 
Rintoul would have had spirit enough to say No ; certainly if it had 
been put to him quickly for an instant decision, without time to 
think, he would have said No, and held by his honor. But some- 
thing else more determined than himself stood before him. Nora ! 
He might use sophistries for the confusing of his own intellect — but 
not hers. She would look at him, he knew how. She would turn 
away from him, he knew how. The anticipation of that glance of 
high scorn and unspoken condemnation made Rintoul tremble to 
the depths of his being, When he thought of it he braced himself 
up with a rapidity and certainty much unlike the previous hesitating 
strain of his thoughts. It must be done,” he said to himself. He 
might beguile himself with argument, but he could not beguile her. 
The thought might intrude upon him whether he had been wise to 
let her know — whether it might not have been better to keep it to 


334 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


himself ; but, having done it, the question was now not only whether 
he was content to lose Nora, but if he was content to put up with her 
scorn and immeasurable contempt. 

They all remarked how pale he was when he came to breakfast 
— ghastly pale, lines under his eyes, the corners of his mouth droop- 
ing ; his hair, which he had tried hard to brush as usual, hung limp 
and would not take its accustomed curl. Lady Lindores tortured 
him by useless inquiries about his health. You are ill — I am sure 
you are ill. You must let me send for the doctor.^’ ‘‘For goodness^ 
sake, mother, let a fellow alone ! I am as well as you are,” had 
been his amiable answer. He all but swore at the servants, all but 
kicked the dog, who thrust with confiding importunity his head 
under his master’s arm. The situation was intolerable to him — his 
thoughts were buzzing in his ears and all about him, so that he did 
not hear what the other people said ; and they talked — with what 
frivolous pertinacity they talked ! — about nothing at all, about the 
most trivial things ; while he was balancing something that, in his 
excitement, he felt inclined to call life or death. 

But, indeed, Rintoul’s impressions as to the gayety and lively 
conversation going on were as far as possible from the truth. There 
was scarcely any conversation, but a general embarrassment. 
Millefleurs was the only one who said much. He bore his disap- 
pointment so sweetly, and was so entirely master of the situation, that 
Lord Lindores grew more and more angry. He made various sharp 
replies, but the little marquis took no heed. He gushed forth, like 
a flowing stream, a great many pleasant details about his going 
home. He was going home in a day or two. His visit to Lindores 
was one which he could never forget ; it had gained him, he hoped, 
friends for life. Wherever he went he would carry with him the re- 
collection of the kindness he had received. Thus he flowed forth, 
doing his best, as usual, to smooth down the embarrassment of the 
others. But the hour of the repast was somewhat terrible to every- 
body. Decorum required that they should all sit a certain time at 
the table, and make a fashion of eating. People have to eat, will they 
nill they, that they may not betray themselves. They all came to 
the surface, so to speak, with a gasp, as Millefleurs said, in his 
round and velvety voice, “ I suppose you are going to Dunearn to this 
examination, Lord Lindores ? ” 

“ It is a private affair, not an open court ; but, to show an interest, 
I suppose I ought to be somewhere near,” was the answer ; and there 
arose at that moment a howl of fright and pain from the dog, upon 
whom Rintoul had spilled a cup of tea. He got up, white and hag- 
gard, shaking off the deluge from his clothes. “ These brutes get 
insufferable,” ho^ cried ; “ why can we never have a meal without a 
swarm of them about ? ” 

The proceedings had begun at Dunearn before any of the party 
from Lindores arrived there. Rintoul, who was the first to set out, 
walked, with a sort of miserable desire of postponing the crisis ; and 
Lord Lindores, with a kind of sullen friendliness toward John, fol- 
lowed in his phaeton. They were both late, and were glad to be 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


335 


late ; which was very different from Miss Barbara, who, wound up 
by anxiety to an exertion which she could not have believed herself 
capable of, had walked from her house, leaning on Nora’s arm, and 
was waiting on the spot when John was driven up in a shabby old fly 
from Dunnottar. 

The old lady was at the door of the fly before it could be opened, 
putting out her hand to him. ‘‘ My bonny lad, you’ll come to your 
luncheon with me at half-past one ; and mind that you’re not late,” 
she said, in a loud, cheerful, and confident voice, so that every one 
could hear. She took no notice of the lookers-on, but gave her in- 
vitation and her greeting with a fine disdain of all circumstances. 
Nora, upon whom she was leaning, was white as marble. Her eyes 
were strained with gazing along the Lindores road. 

Who are you looking for, Nora?” Miss Barbara had already 
asked half a dozen times. 

It was not much support she got from the tremulous little figure, 
but the old lady was inspired. She stood till John had passed into 
the Town-house, talking to him all the time in a voice which sounded 
over all the stir of the little crowd which had gathered about to see 
him. Janet cannot bide her dishes to be spoiled. You will be 
sure and come in time. I’ll not wait for you, for I’m not a great 
walker ; but everything will be ready at half-past one.” 

When she had thus delivered her cheerful message Miss Bar- 
bara turned homeward, not without another remark upon Nora’s 
anxious gaze along the road. You are looking for your fine friends 
from Lindores. We’ll see none of them to-day,” said the old lady, 
resolutely, turning her companion away. She went on talking, alto- 
gether unaware how the girl was suffering, yet touched by a percep- 
tion of some anxiety in her. You are not to be unhappy about 
John Erskine,” she said at last. These words came to Nora’s ears 
vaguely, through mists of misery, anger, bitter disappointment, and 
that wrath with those we love which works like madness in the 
brain. What did she core for John Erskine ? She had almost said 
so, blurting out the words in the intolerance of her trouble, but did 
not, restrained as much by her incapacity to speak as by any other 
hinderance. To think that he for whom she was watching had proved 
himself incapable of an act of simple justice ! to think that the man 
whom she had begun by thinking lightly of, but had been beguiled 
into loving, she did not know how, sure at all events of his honor 
and manliness — to think that he should turn out base, a coward, 
sheltering himself at the cost of another! Oh, what did it matter 
about John Erskine ? John Erskine was a true man — nothing could 
happen to him. Then there arose all at once in poor Nora’s inex- 
perienced brain that bitterest struggle on earth, the rally of all her 
powers to defend and account for, while yet she scorned and loathed, 
the conduct of the man she loved. 

It is easy to stand, through evil report and good, by those who 
are unjustly accused, who are wronged, for whom and on whose be- 
half you can hold your head high. But when, alas ! God help them, 
they are base, and the accusation against them just! Nora, young, 


33 ^ 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


unused to trouble, not knowing the very alphabet of pain, fell into 
this horrible pit in a moment, without warning, without escape. It 
confused all her faculties, so that she could do nothing save stumble 
blindly on, and let Miss Barbara talk of John Erskine — as if John 
Erskine and the worst that could happen to him were anything, any- 
thing ! in comparison with this passion of misery which Nora had to 
bear. 

And she was so little used to suffering. She did not know how 
to bear. Spartans and Indians and all those traditionary Stoics are 
bred to it — trained to bear torture and make no sign ; but Nora had 
never had any training, and she was not a Spartan or a Red Indian. 
She was a woman, which is, perhaps, next best. She had to crush 
herself down ; to turn away from the road by which Rintoul might 
still appear ; to go in to the quiet rooms, to the ordinary morning 
occupations, to the needle-work which Miss Barbara liked to see her 
do. Anything in the world would have been easier ; but this and 
not anything else in the world was Nora’s business. And the sunny 
silence of the gentle feminine house, only disturbed by Miss Bar- 
bara’s ceaseless talk about John, closed round her. Janet came 
ben ” and had her orders. Agnes entered softly with her mistress’s 
cap and in-door shawl. All went on as it had done for years. 

This calm, however, was soon interrupted. The Lindores car- 
riage drew up at the door, with all the dash and splendor which dis- 
tinguishes the carriage of a countess when it stops at a humble 
house. Miss Barbara had a standing prejudice against these fine, 
half-foreign (as she supposed) people. She rose up with the dignity 
of an archduchess to receive her visitors. Lady Lindores was full 
of anxiety and sympathy. ^LWe are as anxious as you can be,” she 
said, kissing Miss Barbara, warmly, before the old lady could draw 
back. 

’Deed I cannot say that I am anxious at all,” said Miss Bar- 
bara, with her head high. “ A thing that never happened cannot be 
proved against any man. I am expecting my nephew to his lun- 
cheon at half-past one. As there’s nothing against him, he can 
come to no harm. I will be glad to see your ladyship and Lady 
Edith to meet him — at half-past one,” the old lady said, with marked 
emphasis. She had no inclination to allow herself to be intruded 
upon. But Edith attained what her mother failed to achieve. She 
could not conceal her agitation and excitement. She grew red and 
pale a dozen times in a minute. Oh yes. Miss Barbara, I feel with 
you. I am not anxious at all ! ” she cried. 

Why should she be anxious ? What had she to do with John ? 
Her flutter of changing color touched Miss Barbara’s heart in spite 
of herself. No, she would not be a suitable wife for John Erskine ; 
an earl’s daughter was too grand for the house of Dalrulzian. But 
yet — Miss Barbara could not help being mollified. She pushed an 
easy-chair toward the mother of this bonny creature. ^Mt will be 
a pleasure to him to hear that there are kind hearts caring for what 
happens to him. If your ladyship will do me the honor to sit 
down,” she said, with punctilious yet suspicious respect. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


337 


Papa is there now/’ said Edith, whispering to Nora ; and 
Lord Millefleurs came with us, and will bring us word hew things 
are going. Rintoul started before any of us ” 

“ Rintoul !” said Nora — at least, she thought she said it. Her 
lips moved, a warm suffusion of color came over her, and she looked 
wistfully in Edith’s face. 

“ He thought he would get to Dunearn before us ; but, after all, 
horses go faster than men. What is the matter ? Are you ill, 
Nora? ” 

Nora was past making any reply. The cessation of pain, that is 
more, a great deal more, than a negative good. For the first mo- 
ment, at least, it is bliss, active bliss — more than anything else 
known to men. Of course Nora, when she came to herself, ex- 
plained that it was a sudden little spasm, a feeling of faintness — 
something she was used to. She was quite well, she declared ; and 
so it proved by the color, that came back to her face. She has not 
been herself all the morning,” said Miss Barbara ; she will be the 
better of young company — of somebody like herself.” 

After this, the ladies tried to talk on different subjects. There 
were inquiries to be made for Lady Caroline, poor thing ! ” and 
she was described as being ‘^better than we should have dared to 
hope,” with as near an approach to the truth as possible ; and then 
a scattered fire of remarks, now one, now another, coming to the 
front with sudden energy ; while the others relapsed into the listen- 
ing and strain of curiosity. Miss Barbara held her head high. It 
was she who was the most steady in the conversation. She would 
not suffer it to be seen that she had any tremor as to what was go- 
ing on. But the girls were unequal to this fortitude. They fluctu- 
ated from red to white, and from white to red. They would stop in 
the middle of a sentence, their voices ending in a quaver, as if the 
wind had blown them out. Why should they be so moved ? Miss 
Barbara noted it keenly, and felt, with a thrill of pleasure, that John 
was getting justice. Two of them! the bonniest creatures in the 
county ! How their rival claim was to be settled afterward she did 
not inquire; but in the mean time, at the moment when he was un- 
der so dark a cloud, it warmed her heart to see him so much 
thought of : the Erskines always were so ; they were a race that 
women loved and men liked, and the. last representative was worthy 
of his sires. 

Hours seemed to pass while the ladies thus held each other in a 
wonderful tention and restraint waiting for the news ; until a little 
commotion on the stairs, a hurried step, brought them all to their 
feet with one impulse. It was little Millefleurs, who rushed in, with 
his hat pressed to his breast. ‘‘Forgive the intrusion !” he cried, 
with pants of utterance ; “I’m out of breath ; I have run all the 
way. Erskine is coming after me with Lord Lindores.” He shook 
hands with everybody vehemently in his satisfaction. “ They let 
me in because I was the duke’s son, don’t you know ; it’s conve- 
nient now and then ; and I bolted with the news. But nobody pre- 
sents me to Miss Erskine,” he said, aggrieved. “ Madam, I am 

*5 


338 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


Millefleurs. I was Erskine’s fag at Eton. I have run miles for him 
to buy his buns and jam ; but I was slimmer in those days.” 

Miss Barbara had sunk upon a chair. She said, with a panting 
of her ample bosom, as if she had been running too, You are too 
kind, my Lord Millefleurs. I told John Erskine to be here at half- 
past one to his luncheon. You will all wait and meet him. You will 
wait and meet him — ” She repeated the words, with a little sob of 
age, half laughter, half tears. ‘‘The Lord be praised! though I 
never had any doubt of it,” the proud old lady said. 

“ It has all come perfectly clear” said Millefleurs, pleased with 
his position as the centre of this eager group. “ The right man, the 
person to whom it really happened, has come forward most honor- 
ably and given himself up. I don’t clearly understand all the rights 
of the story. But there it is. The man couldn’t stand it, don’t you 
know. I suppose he thought nothing would ever be found out ; 
and when he heard that Erskine was suspected and taken he was 
stunned at first. Of course he should have produced himself at 
once ; but all’s well that ends well. He has done it now.” 

“ The man — that did it ? ” It was Nora that said this, gazing at 
him, with perfectly colorless cheeks, standing out in the middle of 
the room, apart from the others, who were for the moment too com- 
pletely satisfied with the news to ask more. 

“ Don’t think it is crime,” said Millefleurs, soothingly. “ There 
is every reason to conclude that ‘ accident ’ will be the verdict. In 
the mean time, I suppose he will be committed for trial ; but all 
these are details, don’t you know,” he said, in his smooth voice. 
“ The chief thing is, that our friend is clear and at liberty; and in 
a few minutes he’ll be here.” 

They scarcely noticed that Nora disappeared out of the room in 
the joyful commotion that followed. She went away almost suffo- 
cating with the effort to keep her emotion down. Did he know of 
whom it was that he was speaking ? Was it possible that he knew ? 
the son of one, the brother of another — to Nora more than either. 
What did it mean ? Nora could not get breath. She could not 
stay in the room and see all their relieved, delighted faces, the un- 
disturbed satisfaction with which they listened and asked their ques- 
tions. Was the man a fool ? Was he a creature devoid of heart or 
perception ? An hour ago Nora had thought that Rintoul’s absence 
from his post would kill her, that to see him do his duty was all she 
wanted on earth. But now the indifference of everybody around to 
what he had done, the ease with which the story was told, the un- 
consciousness of the listeners, was more intolerable to her than even 
that despair. She could not bear it. She hurried away, not capable 
of a word, panting for breath, choked by her heart, which beat in 
her throat, in her very ears — and by the anguish of helplessness and 
suspense, which was more than she could bear. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


339 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

John Erskine had received Edith’s letter that morning in his 
prison. His spirits were at a very low ebb when it was put into his 
hand. Four days’ confinement had taken the courage out of him 
more effectually than any other discipline could have done ; and 
though the prospect of his examination had brought in a counterbal- 
ancing excitement, he was by no means so sure that everything 
would come right as he had been at first. Having once gone wrong, 
why should it come right ? If the public and the sheriff (or what- 
ever the man was) could entertain such an idea for four days, 
why not for four years or a lifetime ? When Edith’s letter was put 
into his hand he was beginning to awake, to brace himself up for 
an encounter with the hostile world. He had begun to say to him- 
self that he must get his wits about him, and not permit himself to 
be sacrificed without an effort. And then, in a moment, up his heart 
went like a shuttlecock. She had no doubt about him, thank 
Heaven ! Her “ dear Mr. Erskine,” repeated when it was not 
exactly necessary, and which she had drawn her pen through, but so 
lightly that the cancelling of the words only made them emphatic, 
seemed to John to say everything that words could say. It said 
more, in fact than Edith would ever have said had he not been in 
trouble and in prison. And then that outbreak about feminine im- 
potence at the end ! 

This was to John the sweetest pleasantry, the most delightful 
jest. He did not think of her indignation or bitterness as real. The 
idea that Lady Lindores and she would have been his bail if they 
could amused him so that he almost shed tears over it, as well as the 
complaint that they could do nothing. Do nothing ! Who could 
do so much? If all went well, John said to himself, with a leap of 
his heart — if all went well I It was under the elation of this stimu- 
lant that he got ready to proceed to Dunearn ; . and though to drive 
there in the dingy fly with a guardian of the law beside him was not 
cheerful, his heart swelled high with the thought that other hearts 
were beating with anxiety for him. He thought more of that than of 
his defence ; for, to tell the truth, he had not the least idea how to 
manage his defence. 

Mr. Monypenny had visited him again, and made him feel that 
truth was the last thing that was likely to serve him, and that by far 
his wisest plan would be to tell a lie and own himself guilty, and in- 
vent a new set of circumstances altogether. But he did not feel his 
imagination equal to this. He would have to hold by his original 
story, keep to the facts, and nothing more. But surely some happy 
fortune would befriend him. He was more excited, but perhaps less 
hopeful, when Miss Barbara met him at the door of the Town-house. 


340 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


Her words did not give him the encouragement she intended. Her 
luncheon and her house and her confidence were for the moment 
intolerable to John, as are so often the well-meant consolations of his 
elders to a young man driven half frantic by warmer hopes and fears. 
He came to himself altogether when he stepped within the place in 
which he felt that his fate was to be decided. 

Though it was contrary to custom, several of his friends, gentle- 
men of the county, had been admitted by favor of the sheriff to be 
present at the examination, foremost among them old Sir James, 
who towered over the rest, with his fine white head and erect, 
soldierly bearing. Lord Lindores was admitted under protest when 
the proceedings were beginning ; and after him, white with dust, 
and haggard with excitement, Rintoul, who kept behind backs, 
standing — so that his extremely agitated countenance, his lips, with 
a slight nervous quiver, as though he were about to speak, and eyes 
drawn together, with a hundred anxious lines about them, were clear- 
ly apparent. John remarked this face over all the others with the 
utmost surprise. Rintoul had never been very cordial with him. 
What could be the reason for this extraordinary manifestation of 
interest now? John, from his too prominent place, as the accused, 
had this agitated face confronting him, opposed to him, as it seemed, 
half defying him, half appealing to him. Only the officials concerned 
— the sheriff, who was a little slow and formal, making unnecessary 
delays in the proceedings, and the other functionaries — could see 
as John could the face and marked position of Rintoul ; and none 
of these personages took any notice. John only felt his eyes drawn 
to it instinctively. If all this passionate sympathy was for him, how 
could he ever repay Rintoul for friendship so unexpected? No 
doubt this was her doing too. 

Just as the witnesses were about to be called who had been 
summoned — and of whom, though John was not aware of it, Rintoul, 
who had (as was supposed) helped to find the body, was one — an 
extraordinary interruption occurred. Mr. Monypenny, who to John’s 
surprise had not approached him or shown himself in his vicinity, 
suddenly rose, and, addressing the sheriff, claimed an immediate 
stoppage of the proceedings, so far as Mr. Erskine was concerned. 
He was a very clear-headed and sensible man ; but he was a country 
man of business” — a Scotch solicitor — and he had his own formal 
way of making a statement. It was so formal, and had so many 
phrases in it only half comprehensible to unaccostumed ears, that 
it was some time before the little group of friends were fully aware 
what the interruption meant. « 

Mr. Monypenny announced, however, to the perfect understand- 
ing of the authorities present, that the person who had really en- 
countered the unfortunate Mr. Torrance last, and been concerned 
in the scuffle which no doubt unfortunately was the cause of the 
accident, had come to his house on the previous night and given 
himself up. The man’s statement was perfectly clear and satisfac- 
tory, and would be supported by all the circumstantial evidence. 
He had kept back nothing, but displayed the most honorable anxie- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


341 


ty to clear the gentleman who had been so unjustly accused and put 
to so much personal inconvenience. 

Is the man in court? ” the sheriff asked. 

The man is here,” said Mr. Monypenny. The good man was 
conscious of the great effect he was producing. He looked round 
upon the group of gentlemen with thorough enjoyment of the situa- 
tion ; but he, too, was startled by the extraordinary aspect of Lord 
Rintoul. The young man was livid ; great drops of perspiration 
stood on his forehead ; the lines about his eyes were drawn tight, 
and the eyes themselves, two unquiet watchers, full of horror and 
astonishment, looked out wildly, watching everything that was done. 
His lips had dropped apart ; he stood like a man who did not know 
what the next word might bring upon him. 

This is the man,” Mr. Monypenny said. Rintoul made a sud- 
den step forward, striking his foot violently against the bench in 
front of him. The sheriff looked up angrily at the noise. There 
is something in a great mental struggle of any kind which moves the 
atmosphere around it. The sheriff looked up and saw three men 
standing at unequal distances before him : Mr. Monypenny in front 
of his chair, with somebody tranquil and insignificant beside him, 
and in the distance a face full of extraordinary emotion. Will you 
have the goodness to step forward? ” the sheriff said ; and then, stop- 
ping himself peevishly, “ This is all out of order. Produce the man.” 

Rolls had risen quietly by Mr. Monypenny’s side. He was not 
like a brawler, much less an assassin. He was somewhat pale, but, 
in his professional black coat and white tie, who could have looked 
more respectable? He had ‘‘ cleaned himself,” as he said, with 
great care that morning. Haggard and unshaven as he had been on 
the previous night after his wanderings, he would scarcely have 
made so great a sensation as he did now, trim as a new pin, carefully 
shaved, carefully brushed. There was a half shout, half cry, from 
the little band of spectators, now thoroughly demoralized and inca- 
pable of keeping order. 

Rolls ! old Rolls!” John Erskine cried, with consternation. 
Could this be the explanation of it ? 

As for Rolls himself, the outcry acted upon him in the most re- 
markable way. He grew red and lost his temper. It’s just me, 
gentlemen,” he said ; and can an accident not happen to a man 
in a humble condition of life as well as to one of you ? ” 

He was silenced at once, and the stir of amazement repressed ; 
but nothing could prevent the rustle and whisper among the gentle- 
men, which would have become tumultuous had their presence there 
been more than tolerated. They all knew Rolls, and to connect him 
with such an event was impossible. The tragedy seemed over, and 
at the utmost a tragi-comedy, a solemn farce, had taken its place. 

Rolls’s statement, however, was serious enough. It was to the 
effect that he had met his master coming down from Tinto in the 
condition of which so much had been made, when he himself was go- 
ing up to make a request to Mr. Torrance about a lease — that he met 
Torrance close to the Scaur, coming thundering down the brae,” 


342 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


in a state of excitement and temper such as it was well enough 
known Tinto was subject to. Rolls acknowledged that in such cir- 
cumstances he ought not to have stopped him and introduced his 
suit — but this was merely an error of judgment. Tinto, he said, re- 
ceived his request very ill, and called his nephew — for whom he was 
going to plead — a ne’er-do-weel, which was not the case, let him say 
it that would. And here, again. Rolls was wrong, he allowed — it 
was another error of judgment — but he was not going to have his own 
flesh and blood abused. He stood up for it to Tinto’s face, that 
Willie Rolls was as respectable a lad as ever ploughed land. It was 
well known what Tinto was— a man that had no thought but a word 
and a blow. He rode at Rolls furiously. ‘‘ I took hold of the 
beast’s bridle to push her back — what I could do. She would have 
had her hoofs on me in a moment.” Then he saw with horror the 
rear, the bound back, the false step ; and then harse and man went 
thundering over the Scaur. Rolls declared that he lost no time in 
calling for help — in trying all he could to save the victim. Lord Rin- 
toul would bear him witness, for his lordship met him in the wood, 
routing like a wild beast. Nothing could be more consistent, more 
simple, than the whole story — it bore the stamp of truth on every 
line — or such, at least, was the conclusion of the sheriff, and the pro- 
curator, and the crier, and the town officer, and every official about 
the Town-house of Dunearn. 

The formidable examination which had excited so much interest 
terminated by the return of John’s fly to Dunnottar, with the butler 
in it, very grave and impressive in the solemn circumstances. Rolls 
himself did not choose to consider his position lightly. He acknow- 
ledged with great respect the salutations of the gentlemen who 
could not be prevented from crowding to the door of the fly after 
him. Sir James, who was the first, thrust something secretly into 
Rolls’s hand. 

“ They’ll not treat you so well as they treated your master. 
You must fee them — fee them, Rolls,” said the old general. 

‘‘ It’ll be better than I deserve, Sir James,” Rolls said. 

Hoot ! nothing will happen to you, man,” said Sir James. 

He was well inspired to make a clean breast of it,” Mr. Mony- 
. penny said. The truth before all — it’s the best policy.” 

“ You’re very kind to say sae, sir,” said Rolls, solemnly. As he 
spoke he met the eye of Lord Rintoul, who stood behind, fixing his 
regard upon the face of John’s substitute. It was a trouble to Rolls 
to understand what the young lord could mean, glowering ” as he 
did, but saying nothing. Was he better aware of the facts of the 
case than any one suspected ? might he come in with his story and 
shatter that of Rolls ? This gave the old servant a little anxiety as 
he sat solemnly in his corner and was driven away. 

It would be impossible to enumerate all the visitors who thronged 
into Miss Barbara Erskine’s house that day. She had three more 
leaves put into her dining- table, and Janet added dish to dish with 
the wildest prodigality. Sir James Montgomery was one of those 
who ‘‘ convoyed ’’ John to his old relative’s house. He walked upon 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


343 


one side of the hero, and Lord Lindores upon the other. I will 
not conceal my fault from you, Miss Barbara,’^ he said. ‘‘ I thought 
when I heard his story first it was just the greatest nonsense. But 
it worked upon me — it worked upon me. And then Lady Mont- 
gomery, she would not hear a word.’^ 

Women understand the truth when they hear it — it’s none so 
often,” Miss Barbara said, flushed with triumph and happiness. 
Rintoul had come in with the rest — or rather after the rest. He and 
John were the two who were somewhat out of all this tumult and re- 
joicing. They had not spoken to each other, keeping apart with an 
instinctive repugnance, silent in the midst of the rejoicing. But the 
rest of the company made up the deficiency. Such a luncheon ! a 
duke’s son from England, an earl, all the best men in the county ; 
and Janet’s dishes praised and consumed to the last morsel, and the 
best wine brought up from the cellar, and the house not big enough 
to contain the guests. Miss Barbara sat at the head of the table, 
with a little flush of triumph on her cheek. It’s like a marriage 
feast,” she said to Sir James, when they rose from the table. 

‘‘ And I cannot see what should hinder it to be the forerunner. 
But the breakfast shall be at my house. Miss Barbara, since her par- 
ents have no house of their own here.” 

‘‘ Oh, who are you calling her f ” said Miss Barbara, shaking her 
head ; and as she spoke she turned toward a group in a corner — two 
young figures close together. Sir James’s countenance grew long, 
but Miss Barbara’s bloomed out in genial triumph. It’s not the 
first time,” she said, that we have had a lady o’ title in Dalrulzian 
— and it will not be the last.” The magic of rank had triumphed 
even over prejudice. There could be no denying that Lady Edith 
Erskine would be a bonny name — and a bonny creature, too. 

‘‘ I got your letter,” John said. I suppose an angel must have 
brought it. There is no telling how wretched I was before, or how 
happy after. 

No angel, but my mother’s footman. I am afraid you thought 
it very bold, Mr. Erskine. I was afraid after that I had said too 
much.” 

I think so too — unless you mean it to kill me like a sweet 
poison — which it will do, unless there is more ” 

Mr. Erskine, you have not quite come to yourself — all this ex- 
citement has gone to your head.” 

I want more,” said John — more ! ” And Edith’s eyes sank 
before his. It was not like the affectionate proposals of Millefleurs, 
whose voice was audible now even through those low syllables so dif- 
ferent in their tone. And Lady Lindores at that moment took her 
daughter by the arm. Edith,” she said, in atone of fright, Edith ! ” 
Oh, foolish, foolish mother ! had she never thought of this till now ? 

The window of the dining-room looked out into the garden. 
Nevertheless, it was possible to find a covert where two could talk 
and not be seen. And while the gentlemen rose from the table, and 
Lady Lindores came to her daughter’s rescue, a very different group, 
two very agitated, pale young people, stood together there, without 


344 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


a single demonstration of tenderness or even friendship, looking at 
each other with eager eyes — or rather the girl looked at the man, 
whose courage had failed him, who stood before her like a culprit, 
not venturing to raise his eyes to her face. What is the meaning 
of it ? ” she cried. Oh, what is the meaning of it ? ” She stamped 
her foot upon the ground in her excitement and the intolerable 
trouble of her thoughts. ‘VYou told me — one thing; and now an- 
other has happened. What does it mean ? ” 

‘‘ Nora,” he said, clasping his hands, ‘‘don’t be so hard upon me.” 

“ What does it mean ? ” she cried, her soft face growing stern, 
her nostrils dilating. “ Either what you said is false, or this is false ; 
and anyhow you, you are false. Lord Rintoul ! Oh, cannot you tell 
me what it means ? Is it that you are not brave enough to stand up 
by yourself — to say, ‘ It was I 

“For God’s sake, Nora ! I was ready, quite ready to do it, 
though it would have been ruin to me. I had made up my mind. 
But what could I do when this man stood up before me and said — 
He told the whole story almost exactly as — as it happened. I was 
stupefied; but what could I do ? I declare to you, Nora, when old 
Monypenny got up and said, ‘ The man is here,’ I jumped up, I 
stood forward. And then I was confounded ; I could not say a word.” 
Here he approached a little nearer and put out his hand to take 
hers. “ Why should I, Nora — now, tell me — why should I, when 
this other man says it was he ? He ought to know,” Rintoul 
added, with a groan of faint tentative humor in his voice. He did 
not know how far he might venture to go. 

Once more Nora stamped her foot on the ground. “ Oh, I can- 
not away with you ! ” she cried. It was one of Miss Barbara’s old- 
fashioned phrases. She was at the end of her own. She would have 
liked, she thought, to strike him as he stood before her deprecating, 
yet every moment recovering himself. 

“ If another man chooses to take it upon him why should I con- 
tradict him ? ” Rintoul said, with good sense unanswerable. “ I 
was stunned with astonishment ; but when you reflect, how could I 
contradict him ? If he did it for John Erskine’s sake, it would have 
spoiled that arrangement.” 

“John Erskine would never make any arrangement. If he had 
been to blame he would have borne it. He would not have shirked 
or drawn back.” 

“You think better of John Erskine than of me, Nora. I do not 
know what it is, but I have no right to interfere. I’ll give the old 
fellow something when it’s all over. It is not for me he is doing it, 
whatever is his reason. I should spoil it all if I said a word. Will 
you forgive me now ? ” said Rintoul, with a mixture of calm reason 
and anxiety. He had quite recovered himself. And Nora, still in 
a flutter of slowly dissipating excitement, could find no argument 
against that sturdy good-sense of his. For he was strong in sense, 
however worldly it might be. 

“ I cannot understand it at all. Do you know who the man was ? ” 
she said. 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


345 


And then he laughed — actually laughed — though he was on the 
borders of desperation an hour ago. The echo of it seemed to run 
round the garden among the listening trees, and horrified Nora. But 
at his next word she threw up her hands in consternation, with a cry 
of bewilderment, confusion, almost amusement too, though she would 
have thought that impossible — Old Rolls ! ” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

John Erskine returned to Dalrulzian alone after this wonderful 
morning’s work. He could scarcely believe that he was free to walk 
where he pleased — to do what he liked. Four days is not a long 
period of time. But prison has an extraordinary effect, and his very 
limbs had seemed to tingle when he got the uncontrolled use of them 
again. Lord Lindores had driven him back as far as the gates of 
Lindores, and from thence he walked on, glad of the air, the sense 
of freedom and movement — the silence in which to realize all that had 
passed. Enough had passed, indeed, to give full occasion for thought ; 
and it was only now that the extraordinary character of the event 
struck him. Rolls t to associate Rolls with a tragedy ! In his ex- 
ictement John burst into a wild fit of laughter, which echoed along 
the quiet road ; then, horrified by the sound, drew himself quickly 
together, and went on, with the gravest countenance in the world. 
But it must be added that this thought of Rolls was only momentary 
— it came and went, and was dropped into the surrounding darkness, 
in which all accidents of common life were heaped together as insig- 
nificant and secondary, in comparison with one central consciousness 
with which his whole firmament was ablaze. He had demanded 
More! more 1 ” but had not received another word. No explana- 
tion had ensued. The mother had come in with soft authority, with 
a steadfast blank of all understanding. Lady Lindores would not 
see that they wanted to talk to each other. She had not ceased to 
hold her daughter by the arm, affectionately leaning upon her, until 
they went away ; and Edith had not spoken another word — had not 
even met his anxious looks with more than the most momentary, 
fugitive glance. Thus John had withdrawn in that state of half cer- 
tainty which, perhaps, is more absorbing to the faculties and more 
transporting to the heart than any definite and indisputable fact ever 
can be. His whole being was in movement, agitated by a delicious 
doubt, by an eager, breathless longing to know, which was sweeter 
than knowledge. All the romance and witchcraft of passion was in 
it, its most ethereal part, 

** Hopes, and fears that kindle hopes — 

An indistinguishable throng ; 

And gentle wishes Jong subdued. 

Subdued and cherished long.’* ' 

IS* 


346 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


Such was the potency of this charm, that, after he had thrown 
one thought at Rolls, and perceived the absurdity of the event, and 
given vent to the excited commentary of that laugh, John abandoned 
himself altogether to the sea of fancies, the questions, the answers, 
the profound trains of reasoning which belonged to that other unre- 
solved and all-entrancing problem. He discussed with himself every 
word of Edith’s letter, turning it over and over. Did it mean this ? 
or peradventure, after all, did it only mean that"^ But if it meant 
that and not this, would she have so replied to his looks ? would not 
she have said something more definitely discouraging when he ap- 
pealed to her for ‘ More ! more ? ’ She had not given him a word 
more ; but she had replied with no stony look, no air of angry sur- 
prise or disdain, such as surely 

Yet, on the other hand, might it not be possible that compassion 
and sympathy for his extraordinary circumstances, and the wrong he 
had undergone, might keep her, so sweet and good as she was, from 
any discouraging word ? Only, in that case, would she have cast 
down her eyes like that? would they have melted into that unspeak- 
able sweetness ? So he ran on, as so many have done before him. 
He thought no more of the matter which had affected him so deeply 
the last week, or of Torrance, who was dead, or of Rolls, who was 
in jail, than he did of last year’s snow. Every interest in heaven 
and earth concentrated to him in these endless delightful questions. 
When a man, or, for that matter, a woman, is in this beatific agita- 
tion of mind the landscape generally becomes a sort of blur of light 
around them, and, save to the inward eye, which more than ever at 
such a moment is ‘‘ the bliss of solitude,” there is nothing that is 
very clearly visible. 

John saw this much, but no more, in Miss Barbara’s old-fash- 
ioned dining-room — the genial gentlemen still at table, and Miss 
Barbara herself, in her white shawl, forming only a back-ground to 
the real interest ; and he perceived no more of the country round 
him as he walked, or the glow of the autumn foliage, the distance 
rolling away in soft blueness of autumnal mists to Tinto. He man- 
aged to walk along the road without seeing it, though it was 
so familiar, and arrived at his own gate with great surprise, unable 
to comprehend how he could have come so far. When he opened 
the gate Peggy Fleming came out, with her apron folded over her 
hands ; but when she saw who it was, Peggy, forgetting the soap- 
suds, which showed it was washing-day, flung up her red, moist 
arms to the sky, and gave utterance to a wild skreigh” of welcome 
and joy. For a moment John thought nothing less than that he was 
to be seized in those wildly waving and soapy arms. 

‘‘Eh, it’s the master!” Peggy cried. “ Eh, it’s himsel’ ! Eh, 
it’s lies, every word ; and I never believed it, no’ for a moment I ” 
And with that she threw her apron over her head and began to sob — 
a sound which brought out all her children, one after another, to 
hang upon her skirts and eagerly investigate the reason why. 

The warmth of this emotional welcome amused him, and he 
paused to say a word or two of kindness before he passed on. But 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


347 


he had not anticipated the excitement with which he was to be 
received. When he came in sight of his own house the first sound 
of his step was responded to by the watchers within with an anxious 
alacrity. A head popped out at a window ; a white-aproned figure 
appeared from the back of the house and ran back at the sight of 
him. And then there arose a ‘‘skreigh” of rapture that threw 
Peggy’s altogether into the shade, and Bauby rushed out upon him, 
with open arms, and all her subordinates behind her, moist and 
flowing with tears of joy. Eh, Mr. John ! Eh, my bonny man ! 
Eh, laddie, laddie — that I should call you sae ! My heart’s just 
broken. And have you come hame ? and have you come hame ?” 

“As you see,” said John. He began to be rather tired of this 
primitive rejoicing, which presupposed that his detention had been 
a very serious matter, although by this time, in the crowd of other 
thoughts, it had come to look of no importance at all. But he 
remembered that he had a communication to make which, no doubt, 
would much lessen this delight ; and he did not now feel at all disposed 
to laugh when he thought of Rolls. He took Bauby by the arm, and 
led her with him, astonished, into the library. The other maids 
remained collected in the hall. To them, as to Peggy at the lodge, 
it seemed the most natural thing to imagine that he had escaped, 
and might be pursued. The excitement rose very high among 
them : they thought instantly of all the hiding-places that were 
practicable, each one of them being ready to defend him to the 
death. 

And it was very difficult to convey to the mind of Bauby the infor- 
mation which John had to communicate. “ Oh, ay, sir, she said, 
with a courtesy ; “just that. I was sure Tammas was at Dunnottar, 
to be near his maister. He has a terrible opinion of his maister ; 
but now you’re back yoursel’ there will be no-thing to keep him.” 

“ You must understand,” said John, gently, “ that Rolls — it was, 
I have no doubt, the merest accident ; I wonder it did not happen 
to myself — Rolls caught his bridle, you know ” 

“ Oh, ay, just that, sir,” said Bauby ; “ but there will be no-thing 
to keep him, now you’re back yoursel’.” 

“ I’m afraid I don’t make myself plain,” said John. “ Try to 
understand what I am saying. Rolls — your brother, you know ” 

“ Oh, ay, sir,” said Bauby, smiling broadly over all her beaming 
face, “ he’s just my brother — awbody kens that — and a real good 
brother Tammas has aye been to me.” 

John was at his wits’ end. He began the story a dozen times 
over, and softened and broke it up into easy words, as if he had been 
speaking to a child. At last it gradually dawned upon Bauby, not 
as a fact, but as something he wanted to persuade her of. It was a 
shock, but she bore it nobly. “You are meaning to tell me, sir, 
that it was Tammas — our Tammas, that killed Pat Torrance, yon 
muckle man ? Na — it’s just your joke, sir. Gentlemen will have 
their jokes.” 

“ My joke!” cried John, in horror; “do you think it is any- 
thing to joke about ? I cannot understand it any more than you 


348 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


can. But it is fact — it is himself that says so. He got hold of the 
bridle ” 

Na, Mr. John ; na, na, sir. What is the good of frightening a 
poor lone woman ? The like of that could never happen. Na, na.” 

But it is he himself who has said it ; no one else could have 

imagined it for a moment. It is his own story ” 

‘‘And if it is,” said Bauby — “mind ye, Mr. John, I ken no- 
thing about it ; but I ken our Tammas — if it is, he’s just said it to 

save — ithers : that’s the way of it. I ken him and his ways ” 

“ To save — others ? ” The suggestion bewildered John. 

“ Oh ay — it’s just that,” said Bauby again. She dried her eyes 
carefully with her apron, pressing a tear into each corner. “ Him 
pit forth his hand upon a gentleman, and a muckle man like Pat 
Torrance, and a muckle beast ! Na, na, Mr. John ! But he might 
think, maybe, that a person like him, no of consequence — though 
he’s of awfu’ consequence to me,” said Bauby, almost falling back 
into tears. She made an effort, however, and recovered her smile. 
“ It’s just a thing I can very weel understand.” 

“ I think you must be out of your mind,” cried her master. 
“ Such things are not done in our day. What! play with the law, 
and take upon him another man’s burden? Besides,” said John, 
impatiently, “ for whom ? In whom could he be so much interested 
as to play such a daring game ? ” 

“ Oh ay, sir, that’s just the question,” Bauby said, composedly. 
From time to time she put up her apron. The shock she had re- 
ceived was comprehensible, but not the consolation. To follow her 
in this was beyond her master’s power. 

“ That is the question indeed,” John said, gravely. “ I think 
you must be mistaken. It is very much simpler to suppose what 
was the case — that he gripped at the brute’s bridle to save himself 
from being ridden down. It is the most wonderful thing in the 
world that I did not do it myself.” 

“ I’m thinking sae, sir,” said Bauby, dryly ; and then she re- 
lapsed for a moment to the darker view of the situation, and rubbed 
her eyes with her apron. “ What will they do with him ? Is there 
much they can do with him ? ” she said. 

She listened to John’s explanations with composure, broken by 
sudden relapses into emotion ; but, on the whole, she was a great 
deal more calm than John had expected. Her aspect confounded 
her master ; and when at last she made him another courtesy, and 
folding her plump arms, with her apron over^them, announced that 
“ I maun go and see after my denner,” his bewilderment reached 
its climax. She came back, however, after she had reached the 
door and stood before him for a moment with, if that was possible 
to Bauby, a certain defiance. “You’ll no be taking on another 
man,” she said, with a half- threatening smile but a slight quiver of 
her lip, “ the time that yon poor lad’s away ? ” 

This encounter was scarcely over when he had another claim 
made upon him by Beaufort, who suddenly rushed in, breathless 
and effusive, catching him by both hands and pouring forth con- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


349 


gratulations. It was only then that it occurred to John as strange 
that Beaufort had not appeared at Dunearn, or taken any apparent 
interest in his fate ; but the profuse explanations and excuses of his 
friend had the usual effect in directing his mind toward this dere- 
liction from evident duty. Beaufort overflowed in confused apolo- 
gies. I did go to Dunearn, but I was too late ; and I did not like 
to follow you to your aunts’s, whom I don’t know ; and then — and 
then — The fact is, I had an engagement,” was the end of the 
whole ; and as he said this a curious change and movement came 
over Beaufort’s face. 

An engagement ! I did not think you knew anybody.” 

No — nor do I, except those that I have known for years.” 

‘‘The Lindores ? ” John said, hastily — “they were all at Dun- 
earn.” 

“ The fact is — ” Here Beaufort paused and walked to the fire, 
which was low, and poked it vigorously. He had nearly succeeded 
in making an end of it altogether before he resumed. “The fact 
is ” — with his back to John — “ I thought it only proper — to call — and 
make inquiries.” He cleared his throat, then said, hurriedly, “ In 
short, Erskine, I have been to Tinto.” There was a tremulous 
sound in his voice which went to John’s heart. Who was he that he 
should blame his brother ? A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous 
kind. 

“ Dijd, ! ” was all that John said. 

“ Deja — yes ; perhaps I ought to have waited. But when you re- 
flect how long — how long it is ; and all that has happened, and what 
we both have suffered ” 

“ Do you mean that you have gone over all that already ? ” John 
asked, amazed. But Beaufort made him no reply. The fumes of 
that meeting were still in his head, and all that he had said and all 
that had been said to him. The master of the house was scarcely 
out of it, so to speak ; his shadow was still upon the great room, the 
staircases, and passages ; but Carry had lived, it seemed to her, years 
since the decree of freedom was pronounced for her. If there was 
indecorum in his visit, she was unaware of it. To feel themselves 
together, to be able each to pour out to the other the changes in their 
minds, the difference of age and experience, the unchangeableness 
of the heart, was to them both a mystery — a wonder inscrutable. 
Beaufort did not care a brass farthing for John’s escape ; he had 
heard all about it, but he had not even taken it into his mind. He 
tried to put on a little interest now, and asked some confused ques- 
tions without paying any attention to the answers he received. When 
they met at dinner they talked upon indifferent subjects, ignoring on 
both sides the things that were of the deepest interest. “ Has not 
Rolls come back with you ? Oh, I beg your pardon — I forgot,” said 
Beaufort. And John did not think very much more of Rolls, to tell- 
the truth. 

Lord Millefleurs went away a few days after ; but Beaufort con- 
sidered that, on the whole, it would suit him better to remain in 
Scotland a little longer. “ What can I do for you ? ” he said. “ The 


350 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


duke is deceiving himself. You are quite as well able to look after 
yourself as I am. Why should I pretend to exercise functions which 
we all know are quite unnecessary ? I have only just come, and Ers- 
kine is willing to keep me. I think I shall stay.” 

My dear fellow,” said little Millefleurs, “ your sentiments are 
mine to a T ; but we agreed, don't you know, that the duke has a 
great many things in his power, and that it might be as well to humor 
him. You have eased his mind, don’t you know ; and why shouldn’t 
you get the good of it? You are too viewy and disinterested, and 
that sort of thing. But I am a practical man. Come along ! ” said 
Millefleurs. When Beaufort continued to shake his head, as he 
puffed out solemn mouthfuls of smoke, planting himself ever more 
deeply, as if to take root there, in his easy-chair, Millefleurs turned 
to John and appealed to him. ‘‘ Make that fellow come along, Ers- 
kine ; it will be for his good,” the little marquis said. There was a 
little pucker in his smooth forehead. Life is not plain sailing,” he 
went on ; les convenances are not such humbug as men suppose. 
Look here, Beaufort, come along ; it will be better for you, don’t 
you know.” 

I am sick of thinking what is better for me,” said Beaufort. ‘‘ I 
shall please myself for once in my life. What have the convenances 
to do with me ? ” He did not meet the look of his Junior and sup- 
posed pupil, but got up and threw away his cigar and stalked to the 
window, where his long figure shut out almost all the light. Little 
Millefleurs folded his plump hands, and shook his round, boyish head. 
The other was a much more dignified figure, but his outline against 
the light had a limp irresolution in it. He knew that he ought to go 
away ; but how could he do it ? To find your treasure that was lost 
after so many years, and then go straight away and leave it — was 
that possible ? And then, perhaps, it had flashed across Beaufort’s 
mind, who had been hanging on waiting for fortune so long, and 
never had bestirred himself — perhaps it flashed upon him that now — 
now — the duke’s patronage, and the places and promotions in his 
power, might be of less importance. But this was only a shadow fly- 
ing like the shadows of the hills upon which he was gazing, involun- 
tary, so that he was not to blame for it. Millefleurs went away alone 
next day. He took a very tender farewell of the ladies at Lindores, 
asking permission to write to them. And if I hear anything of her^ 
don’t you know, I shall tell you,” he said to Edith, holding her hand 
affectionately in both of his. 

‘‘You must hear something of her — you must go and find her,” 
said Edith. 

Millefleurs put his head on one side, like a sentimental robin. 
“But it is quite unsuitable, don’t you know,” he said, and drove 
away, kissing his hand with many a tender token of friendship. Lord 
Lindores could scarcely endure to see these evidences of an affec- 
tionate parting. He had come out, as in duty bound, to speed the 
parting guest with the proper smile of hospitable regret, but as soon 
as Millefleurs was out of sight turned upon his heel with an expres- 
sion of disgust. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


351 


He is a little fool, if he is not a little humbug. I wonder if he 
ever was in earnest at all ? ” This was addressed to Rintoul, who of 
late had avoided all such subjects, and now made no reply. 

I say, 1 wonder whether he ever meant anything serious at all ? 
said Lord Lindores, in a tone of irritation, having called his son into 
the library after him ; and you don’t even take the trouble to answer 
me. But one thing he has done, he has invited you to Ess Castle ; 
and, as I suggested to you before, there is Lady Reseda, a very nice 

girl, in every way desirable ” 

I have had my leave already,” said Rintoul, hastily. “ It was 

kind of Millefleurs ; but I don’t see how 1 can go ” 

never knew before that there was any such serious difficulty about 
leave,” said his father. ‘‘You can cut off your last fortnight here.” 

“ I don’t think that would do,” said Rintoul, with a troubled look. 
“ I have made engagements — for nearly evdr day.” 

“You had better speak out at once. Tell me, what I know you 
are thinking, that the duke’s daughter, because your father suggests 
her, is not to be thought of. You are all alike. I once thought you 
had some sense, Rintoul.” 

“ I — I hope I have so still. I don’t think it is good taste to bring 
in a lady’s name ” 

“Oh, d — n your good taste ! ” cried the exasperated father. “ A 
connection of this kind would be everything for me. What I am try- 
ing to obtain will, remember this, be for you and your children as 
well. You have no right to reap the benefit if you don’t do what you 
can to bring it about.” 

“ I should like to speak to you on — on the whole subject — some 
time or other,” said the young man. He was like a man eager 
to give a blow, yet so frightened that he ran away in the very act of 
deliv^ering it. Lord Lindores looked at him with suspicious eyes. 

“ I don’t know any reason why you shouldn’t speak now. It 
would be well that we should understand each other,” he said. 

But this took away all power from Rintoul. He almost trembled 
as he stood before his father’s too keen, too penetrating eyes. 

“ Oh, don’t let me trouble you now,” he said, nervously ; “ and 
besides, I have something to do. Dear me, it is three o’clock!” he 
cried, looking at his watch and hurrying away. But he had really 
no engagement for three o’clock. It was the time when Nora, escap- 
ing from her old lady, came out for a walk ; and they had met on 
several occasions, though never by appointment. 

Nora, for her part, would not have consented to make any ap- 
pointment. Already she began to feel herself in a false position. She 
was willing to accept and keep inviolable the secret with which he 
had trusted her ; but that she herself, a girl full of high-mindedness 
and honor, should be his secret too, and carry on a clandestine in- 
tercourse which nobody knew anything of, was to Nora the last hu- 
miliation. She had not written home since it happened ; for to write 
home and not tell her mother of wEat had happened would have 
seemed to the girl falsehood. She felt false with Miss Barbara ; 
she had an intolerable sense at once of being wronged, and wrong. 


352 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


in the presence of Lady Lindores and Edith. She would no more 
have made an appointment to meet him than she would have told a 
lie. But poor Nora, who was only a girl after all, notwithstanding 
these high principles of hers, took her walk daily along the Lindores 
road. It was the quietest, the prettiest. She had always liked it 
better than any other — so she said to herself ; and naturally Rintoul, 
who could not go to Dunearn save by that way, met her there. She 
received him, not with any rosy flush of pleasure, but with a blush 
that was hot and angry, resolving that to-morrow she would turn her 
steps in a different direction, and that this should not occur again ; 
and she did not even give him her hand when they met, as she 
would have done to the doctor or the minister, or any one of the 
ordinary passers-by. 

“You are angry with me, Nora,’^ he said. 

“ I don’t know that I have any right to be angry. We have very 
little to do with each other. Lord Rintoul.” 

“ Nora ! ” he cried ; “ Nora ! do you want to break my heart ? 
What is this ? It is not so very long since ” 

“ It is long enough,” she said, “ to let me see — It is better 
that we should not say anything more about that. One is a fool — 
one is taken by surprise — one does not think what it means.” 

“ Do you imagine I will let myself be thrown off like this ? ” he 
cried, with great agitation. “ Nora, why should you despise me so — 
all for the sake of old Rolls ? 

“ It is not all for the sake of old Rolls.” 

“ I will go and see him, if you like, to-day. I will find out from 
him what he means. It is his own doing, it is not my doing. You 
know I was more surprised than any one. Nora, think ! If you only 
think, you will see that you are unreasonable. How could I stand 
up and contradict a man who had accused himself ? ” 

“ I was not thinking of Rolls,” cried Nora, who had tried to 
break in on his flood of eloquence in vain. “ I was thinking of — 
Lord Rintoul, I am not a person of rank, like you — I don’t know 
what lords and ladies think it right to do — but I will not have clan- 
destine meetings with any one. If a man wants me, if he were a 
prince, he must ask my father — he must do it in the eye of day, 
not as if he were ashamed. Good-bye ! do not expect me to see you 
any more.” She turned as she spoke, waved her hand, and walked 
quickly away. He was too much astonished to say a word. He 
made a step or two after her, but she called to him that she would 
not suffer it, and walked on at full speed. Rintoul looked after her, 
aghast. He tried to laugh to himself, and to say, “Oh, it is that, is 
it ? ” but he could not. There was nothing gratifying to his pride to 
be got out of the incident at all. He turned after she was out of 
sight and went home crestfallen. She never turned round nor looked 
back — made no sign of knowing that he stood there watching her. 
Poor Rintoul crept along homeward in the early gloaming with a 
heavy heart. He would have to beard the lions, then- — no help for 
it ; indeed, he had always intended to do it, but nor now, when 
there was so much excitement in the air. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


353 


CHAPTER XLV. 

Rolls in the county jail, sent hither on his own confession, was in a very 
different position from John Erskine, waiting examination there. He was 
locked up without ceremony in a cell, his respectability and his well-known 
antecedents all ignored. Dunnottar was at some distance from the district 
in which he was known, and Thomas Rolls, domestic servant, charged with 
manslaughter, did not impress the official imagination as Mr. Rolls, the fac- 
totum of Dalrulzian, had long impressed the mind of his own neighborhood 
and surroundings. And Rolls, to tell the truth, was deeply depressed when 
he found himself shut up within that blank interior, with nothing to do, and 
nothing to support the amour-propre which was his strength, except the in- 
born conviction of his own righteousness and exemplary position — a sight for 
all men. But there is nothing that takes down the sense of native merit so 
much as solitude and absence of appreciation. 

Opposition and hostility are stimulants, and keep warm in us the sense of 
our own superiority, but not the contemptuous indifference of a surly turnkey 
to whom one is No. 25, and who cared not a straw for Rolls’s position and 
career. He felt himself getting limp as the long, featureless days went on, 
and doubts of every kind assailed him. Had he been right to do it ? Since 
he had made this sacrifice for his master there had come into his mind a chill 
of doubt which he had never been touched by before. Was it certain that it 
was John who had done it ? Might not he, Rolls, be making a victim of 
himself for some nameless tramp, who would never even know of it, nor care, 
and whose punishment would be doubly deserved and worthy of no man’s in- 
terference ? Rolls felt that this was a suggestion of the devil for his discom- 
fiture. He tried to chase it out of his mind by thinking of the pleasures he 
had secured for himself in that last week of his life — of Edinburgh Castle and 
the Calton Jail, and the Earthen Mound, and the wonders of the Observa- 
tory. To inspect these had been the dream of his life, and he had attained 
that felicity. He had believed that this would give him “ plenty to think 
about ” for the rest of his life, and that, especially for the time of his confine- 
ment, it would afford an excellent provision ; but he did not find the solace 
that he had expected in musing upon Mons Meg and the Scottish Regalia. 

How dreadful four walls become when you are shut up within them ! how 
the air begins to hum and buzz after a while with your thoughts that have es- 
caped you, and swarm about like bees, all murmuring and unresting— these 
were the discoveries he made. Rolls grew nervous, almost hysterical, in the 
unusual quiet. What would he not have given for his plate to polish or his 
lamps to trim ? He had been allowed to have what are called writing mate- 
rials — a few dingy sheets of note-paper, a penny bottle of ink, a rusty steel 
pen — but Rolls was not accustomed to literary composition ; and a few books 
— but Rolls was scornful of what he called “novelles,” and considered even 
more serious reading as an occupation which required thought and a mind free 
of care. And nobody came to see him. He had no effusion of gratitude 
and sweet praise from his master. Mr. Monypenny was Rolls’s only visitor, 
who came to take all his explanations, and get a perfect understanding of 
how his case ought to be conducted. The butler had become rather limp 
and feeble before even Mr. Monypenny appeared. 


354 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


“ I’m maybe not worthy of much,” Rolls said, with a wave of his hand, 
“but I think thereVone or two might have come to see me — one or two.” 

“ I think so too, Rolls ; but it is not want of feeling. I have instructions 
from Mr. Erskine to spare no expense ; to have the very best man that can 
be had. And I make no doubt we’ll carry you through. I’m thinking of 
trying Jardine, who is at the very top of the tree.” 

“ And what will that cost, if I may make so bold, Mr. Monypenny ? ” 

When he heard the sum that was needed for the advocate’s fee Rolls’s 
countenance fe 1, but his spirit rose. “Lord bless us !” he said; “a’ chat 
for standing up and discoursing before the Court ! And most of them are 
real well pleased to hear themselves speak, if it were without fee or reward. 
I think shame to have a’ that siller spent upon me ; but it’s a grand thing of 
the young master, and a great compliment ; it will please Bauby, too.” 

“ lie ought to have come to see you — so old a servant and a most faith- 
ful one,” said Mr. Monypenny. 

“ Well-a-well, sir, there’s many things to be said; a gentleman has things 
to*do ; there’s a number of calls upon his time. He would mean well, I 
make no doubt, and then he would forget ; but to put his hand in his pocket 
like that ! Bauby will be very well pleased. I am glad, poor woman, that 
she has the like of that to keep up her heart.” 

“ Well, Rolls, I am glad to see that you are so grateful. Thinking over 
all the circumstances, and that you lost no time in giving the alarm, and did 
your best to have succor carried to him, T think I may say that you will be 
let off very easy. I would not be astonished if you were discharged at once. 
In any case it will be a light sentence. You may keep your mind easy about 
that.” 

“It’s all in the hands of Providence,” said Rolls. He was scarcely wiL 
ling to allow that his position was one to be considered so cheerfully. “It 
wall be a grand exhibition o’ eloquence,” ho said. “And will there be as 
much siller spent, and as great an advocate on the other side, Mr. Mony- 
penny? It’s a wonderful elevating thought to think that the best intellects 
in the land will be warstlin’ ower a simple body like me.” 

“And that is true. Rolls; they will just warstle over ye — it will be a 
treat to hear it. And if I get Jardine he will do it con amore^ for he’s a 
sworn enemy to the Procurator, and cannot bide the Lord-advocate. He’s a 
tremendous speaker when he’s got a good subject ; and he’ll do it con a7}to7'ey 

“ Well-a-well, sir ; if it’s con amoray or con onything else, sae long as he 
can convince the jury,” said Rolls. He was pleased with the importance of 
this point of view ; but when Mr: Monypenny left him it required all his 
strength of mind to apply this consolation. “ If they would but do it quick, 
I wouldna stand upon the honor of the thing,” he said to himself. 

Next day, however, he had a visitor who broke the tedium very effec- 
tually. Rolls could not believe his eyes when his door suddenly opened and 
Lord Rintoul came in. The young man was very much embarrassed, and 
divided, apparently, between a somewhat fretful shame and a desire to show 
great cordiality. He went so far as to shake hands with Rolls, and then sat 
down on the only chair, not seeming to know what to do next. At length 
he burst forth, coloring up to his hair : “I want to know what made you say 
that ? — for you know it’s not true.” 

Rolls, surprised greatly by his appearance at all, was thunderstruck by 
this sudden demand. “ I don’t just catch your meaning, my lord,” he said. 

“ Oh, my meaning — my meaning is not very difficult. What are you 
here for ? Is it on Erskine’s account ? Did he make any arrangement ? 
What is he to do for you ? ” said Rintoul, hurriedly. “It is all such a mys- 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


355 


tery to me, I don’t know what to make of it. When I heard you say it I 
could not believe my ears.” Rolls looked at him with a very steady gaze — ■ 
a gaze which gradually became unbearable to the young man. “ Don’t stare 
at me,” he cried, roughly, “ but answer me. What is the meaning of it ? — 
that’s what I want to know.” 

‘‘ Vour lordship,” said Rolls, slowly, “is beginning at the hinder end of 
the subjik, so far as I can see. Maybe ye will tell me first, my lord, what 
right ye have to come into a jyel that belangs to the Queen’s maist sacred 
Majesty, as the minister says, and question me, a person awaiting my trial ? 
Are ye a commissioner, or are ye an advocate, or maybe with authority from 
the Procurator himsel’ ? I never heard that you had anything to do with the 
law.” 

“ I’m sure I beg your pardon,” said Rintoul, subduing himself. “ No ; 
I’ve nothing to do with the law. I dare say I’m very abrupt. I don’t know 
how to put it, you know ; but you remember I was there— at least, I wasn’t 
far off : I was — the first person that came. They’ll call me for a witness at 
the trial, I suppose. Can’t you see what a confusing sort of thingdt is for 
me ? I know, you know. Don’t you know I know ? Why, how could you 
have done it when it was — Look here ! it would be a great relief to me, and 
to another — to — a lady — who takes a great interest in you — if you would 
speak out plain.” 

The eyes of Rolls were small and gray — they were not distinguished by 
any brightness or penetrating quality ; but any kind of eyes, when fixed upon 
a man’s face, especially a man who has anything to hide, become insupporta- 
ble, and burn holes* into his very soul. Rintoul pushed away his chair, and 
tried to avoid this look. Then he perceived, suddenly, that he had appro- 
priated the only chair, and that Rolls, w^hom he had no desire to irritate, but 
quite the reverse, was standing. He rose up hastily and thrust the chair 
toward him. “Look here,” he said, “hadn’t you better sit down? I 
didn’t observe it was the only seat in the — room.” 

“They call this a cell, my lord, and w-e’re in a jyel, not a private man- 
sion. I’m a man biding' the course of the law.” 

“ Oh yes, yes, yes ! I know all that ; why should you worry me ? ” cried 
Rintoul. He wanted to be civil and friendly, but he did not know how. 
“ We are all in a muddle,” he said, “ and don’t see a step before us. Why 
have you done it ? What object had he in asking you, or you in doing it ? 
Can’t you tell me ? I’ll make it all square with Erskine if you’ll tell me ; and 
I should know better what to do.” 

“You take a great interest in me — that was never any connection, nor 
even a servant in your lordship’s family. It’s awfu’ sudden,” said Rolls ; 
“but I’ll tell you what, my lord — I’ll make a bargain with you. If you’ll 
tell me what reason you have for wanting to ken, I will tell you what for I’m 
here. ’ ’ 

Rintoul looked at Rolls with a confused and anxious gaze, knowing that 
the latter on his side was reading hinA far more effectually. “You see,” he 
said, “ I was— somewhere about the wood. I — I don’t pretend to mean that 
I could — see what you were about exactly — but — but I know, you know ! ” 
cried Rintoul, confusedly ; “.that’s just my reason — and I Avant you to tell 
me what’s tlie iwianing ? I don’t suppose you can like being here,” he said, 
glancing roun.d'; “ it must be dreadful slow w'ork — nothing to do. You re- 
member Miss Barrington, who always took so great an interest in you ? 
Well, it was she — She — would like to know.” 

. . ‘-|Oh ay. Miss Nora,” said Rolls. “ Miss Nora Avas a young lady I likit 
vVeed It was a great wish of mine, if we ever got our wishes in this Avorld, 


356 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


that Dalrulzian and her might have drawn together. She was awfu’ fond of 
the place.” 

“Dalrulzian and — I suppose you think there’s nobody like Dalrulzian, 
as you call him,” cried Rintoul, red with anger, but forcing a laugh. “ Well, 
I don’t know if it was for his sake or for your sake, Rolls; but Miss Nora — 
wanted to know ” 

“ And your lordship cam' a* this gait for that young lady’s sake ? She is 
set up with a lord to do her errands ! ” said Rolls. “ And there’s few things 
I would refuse to Miss Nora ; but my ain private affairs are — well, my lord, 
they’re just my ain private affairs. I’m no’ bound to unburden my bosom, 
except at my ain will and pleasure, if it was to the Queen hersel.” 

“ That is quite true — quite true. Rolls. Jove ! what is the use of making 
mysteries — if I was ignorant, don’t you see ? — but we’re both in the same 
box, I was — his brother-in-law, you know ; that made it so much worse for 
me. Look here : you let me run on, and let out all sorts of things.” 

“ Do you mean to tell me, Lord Rintoul, that it was you that pushed Pat 
Torrance over the brae ? ” 

The two men stood gazing at each other. The old butler, flushed with 
excitement, his shaky old figure erecting itself, expanding, taking a com- 
manding aspect ; the young lord, pale, with anxious puckers about his eyes, 
shrinking backward into himself, deprecating, as if in old Rolls he saw a 
judge ready to condemn him. “We are all — in the same box,” he faltered. 
“ He was mad ; he would have it: first, Erskine ; if it didn’t happen with 
Erskine, it was his good luck. Then there’s you and me — ” Rintoul never 
took his eyes from those of Rolls, on whose decision his fafe seemed to hang. 
He was too much confused to know very well what he was saying. The very 
event itself, which he had scarcely been able to forget since it happened, be- 
gan to be jnmbled up in his mind. Rolls — somehow Rolls must have had to 
do with it too. It was not he only that had seized the bridle — that had 
heard the horrible scramble of the Iroofs, and the dull crash and moan. He 
seemed to hear all that again as he stood drawing back before John Erskirte’s 
servant. Erskine had been in it. It might just as well have happened to 
Erskine; and it seemed to him, in his giddy bewilderment, that it had hap- 
pened again also to Rolls. But Rolls had kept his counsel, while he had be- 
trayed himself. All the alarms which he had gone through on the morning 
of the examination came over him again. Well, perhaps she would be satis- 
fied now. 

“ Then it was none of my business,” said Rolls. The old man felt as if 
he had fallen from a great height. He was stunned and silenced for a mo- 
ment. He sat down upon his bed vacantly, forgetting all the punctilios in 
which his life had been formed. “ Then the young master thinks it’s me,” 
he added, slowly, “ and divines no-thing — no-thing ! and instead of the truth 
will say till himself, ‘ That auld brute Rolls, to save his auld bones, keepit 
me in prison four days.* ” 

The consternation with which he dropped forth sentence after sentence 
from his mouth, supporting his head in his hands, and looking out from the 
curve of his palms with horror-stricken eyes into the air, not so much as notic- 
ing his alarmed and anxious companion, was wonderful. Then, after a long 
pause. Rolls, looking up briskly, with a light of indignaticrt in his face, ex- 
clai ned, “ And a’ the time it was you, my lad, that did it ? — I’m meaning,” 
Rolls added, with fine emphasis — “ my lord ! and never steppit in like a gen- 
tleman to say, ‘ It’s me — set free that innocent man.’ ” 

“ Rolls, look here ! ” cried Rintoul, with passion — “look here: 
think so badly till you know. I meant to do it. I went there that mofnffi^^ 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


357 


fully prepared. You can ask her, and she will tell you. When somebody 
said, ‘ The man’s here ’ — Jove ! I stepped out ; I was quite ready. And 
then — you might have doubled me up with a touch — you might have knocked 
me down with a feather — when I saw it was you. What could I do ? The 
w'ords were taken out of my mouth. Which of us would they have believed ? 
Most likely they would have thought we were both in a conspiracy to save 
Erskine, and that he was the guilty one after all.” 

It was not a very close attention which Rolls gave to this impassioned 
statement. He was more occupied, as was natural, with its effect upon his 
own position. ** I was just an auld eediot,” he said to himself — “just a fool, 
as I’ve been all my born days. And what will Bauby say? And Dalrulzian, 
he’ll think I was in earnest, and that it was just me ! Lord be about us ! to 
think a man should come to my age and be just as great a fool ! Him do it ! 
No ; if I had just ever thought upon the subjik ; if I hadna been an eediot, 
and an ill-thinking, suspicious, bad-minded — Lord ! me to have been in 
the Dalrulzian family this thirty years, and kenned them to the backbone, and 
made such a mistake at the end — ” He paused for a long time upon this, and 
then added, in a shrill tone of emotion, shame, and distress, “And now he 
will think a’ the time that it was really me ! ” 

Rintoul felt himself sink into the background with the strangest feelings. 
When a man has wound himself up to make an acknowledgment of wrong, what- 
ever it is, even of much less importance than this, he expects to gain a certain 
credit for his performance. Had it been done in the Town-house at Dunearn, 
the news would have run through the country and thrilled every bosom. 
When he considered the passionate anxiety with which Nora had awaited his 
explanation on that wonderful day, and the ferment caused by Rolls’s substi- 
tution of himself for his master, it seemed strange indeed that this old fellow 
should receive the confession of a person so much his superior, and one which 
might deliver him from all the consequences of his rashness, with such curious 
unconcern. He stood before the old butler like a boy before his school- 
master, as much irritated by the carelessness with which he was treated as 
frightened for the certain punishment. And yet it was his only policy to ig- 
nore all that was disrespectful, and to conciliate Rolls. He waited, there- 
fore, though with his blood boiling, through the sort of colloquy which Rolls 
thus held with himself, not interrupting, wondering, and yet saying to himself 
there could be no doubt what the next step must be. 

“I am no showing ye proper respect, my lord,” said Rods, at last; 
“ but when things is a’ out of the ordinal* like this, it canna be wondered at 
if a man forgets his mainners. It’s terrible strange all that’s -happened. I 
canna well give an account o’t to myself. That I should been such an eediot, 
and you — maybe no so keen about your honor as your lordship’s friends 
might desire.” Here he made a pause, as sometimes a school-master will do, 
to see his victim writhe and tempt him to rebellion. But Rintoul was cowed, 
and made no reply. 

“And ye have much to answer for, my lord,” Rolls continued, “on my 
account, though ye maybe never thought me worth a thought. Ye’ve led me 
to take a step that it will be hard to win over — that has now no justification 
and little excuse. For my part, I canna see my way out of it one way or 
another,” he added, with a sigh ; “for you’ll allow that it’s but little claim 
you, or the like of you, for all your lordship, have upon me.” 

‘‘ I have no claim,” said Rintoul, hastily; and then he added, in a whis- 
per of intense anxiety, “ What are you going to do ?” 

Rolls rose up from his bed to answer this question. He went to the high 
window, with its iron railings across the light, from which he could just see 


/ 


3S8 the L ABIES LIND ORES, 

tlie few houses that surrounded the gates, and the sky above them. He gave 
a sigh, in which there was great pathos and self-commiseration, and then he 
said, with a tone of bewilderment and despair, though his phraseology, was 
not, perhaps dignified, “ I’m in a hobble that I cannot see how to get out of. 
A man cannot, for his ain credit, say one thing one afternoon and another 
the next day.” 

“ Rolls,” said Rintoul, with new hope, coming a little closer, “we are not 
rich ; but if I could offer you anything — make it up to you, anyhow ” 

“Hold your peace, my lord,” said the old man, testily — “hold your 
peace. Speak o’ the vulgar ! ” he added to himself, in an undertone of angry 
scorn. “ Maybe you think I did it for siller — for something I was to get ! ” 
Then he returned to his bed and sat down again, passing Rintoul as if he 
did not see him. “ But the lad is young,” he said to himself, “ and it would 
be shairp, shairpupon the family, being the son-in-law and a’. And to say I 
did it, and then to say I didna do it, wha would put ony faith in me ? I’m 
just committed to it one way or another. It’s not what I thought, but I’ll 
have to see it through. My Lord Rintoul,” said Rolls, raising his head, 
“you’ve gotten me into a pretty pickle, and I canna see my way out of it. 
I’m just that way situate that I canna contradict mysel — at least, I will not 
contradict mysel ! ” he added, with an angry little stamp of his foot. “They 
may, say I’m a homicide, but no man shall say I’m a leear. It would 
make more scandal if I were to turn round upon you and convict ye out of 
your ain mouth, than if I were just to hold my tongue, and see what the High 
Court of Justeeciary will say.” 

“ Rolls ! ” Rintoul could not believe his ears in the relief and joy. He 
wanted to burst forth into a thousand thanks, but dared not speak, lest he 
should offend rather than please. “Rolls ! if you will do me such a kindness, 
I shall never forget it. No words can tell what I fell. If I can do anything 
— no, no, that is not what I mean — to please you — to show my gratitude 
)» 

“I am not one to flatter,” said Rolls, “It would be for none of your 
sake — it would be just for myself, and my ain credit. But there are twa- 
three things. You will sign me a pajDer in your ain hand of write, proving 
that it was yon, and no me. I will make no use o’t till a’s blown over ; but 
I wouldna like the master to go to his grave, nor to follow me to mine — as 
he would be sure to do — thinking it was me. I’ll have that for a satisfaction. 
And then there’s another bit maitter. Ye’ll go against our young master in 
nothing he’s set his heart upon. He is a lad that is sore left to himself. 
Good and evil were set before him, and he — did not choose the good. And 
the third thing is just this. Hirh that brings either skaith or scorn upon 
Miss Nora, I’ll no put a fit to the ground for him, if he was the king. Tliir’s 
iny conditions, my Lord Rintoul. If ye like them, ye can give your promise 
— if no, no; and all that is to follow will be according. For I’m no a 
Lindores man, nor have naething to do with the parish, let alane the family : 
ye needna imagine one way or another that it’s for your sake ” 

“If you want to set up as overseer over my conduct,” cried Rintoul, 
hastily, “and interfere with my private concerns ” 

“ What am I heedin’ aboot your lordship’s private concerns? No me ! 
They’re above me as far as the castle’s above the kitchen. Na, na. Just 
what regards young Dalrulzian, and anything that has to do with Miss 
Nora 1” , 

“ Don’t bring in a lady’s name, at least,” cried Rintoul, divided between 
rage and fear. 

“And who was it that brought in the lady’s name? You can do it for 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


359 


your purpose, my lord, and I’ll do’t for mine. If I hear of a thing that 
lady’s father would not approve of, or that brings a tear to her bonny eyes, 
poor thing, poor thing ! ” 

“For Heaven’s sake. Rolls, hold that tongue of yours ! Do you think 
I want an old fellow like you to teach me my duty to — to — the girl I’m 
going to marry ? Don’t drive a man mad by way of doing him a favor. I’m 
not ungrateful. I’ll not forget it. Whatever 1 can do. But for God’s sake 
don’t hit a fellow when he’s down — don’t dig at me as if I hadn’t a feeling in 
me,” cried Rintoul. He felt more and more like a whipped school- boy, ha'f 
crying, half foaming at the mouth, with despite and humiliation. It is im- 
possible to describe the grim pleasure with which Rolls looked on. He 
liked to see the effect of his words. He liked to bring this young lord to his 
knees, and enjoy his triumph over him. But there are limits to mortal en- 
joyment, and the time during which his visitor was permitted to remain with 
him was near an end. Rolls employed the few minutes that remained in 
impressing upon Rintoul the need for great caution in his evidence. “ Ye 
maun take awfu’ care to keep to the truth. Ye’ll mind that a’ ye have to do 
with is after you and me met. An oath is no a thing to play with — an oath,” 
said Rolls, shaking his gray head, “is a terrible thing.” 

Rintoul, in his excitement, laughed loud. “ You set me an excellent ex- 
ample,” he said. 

“I hope so,” said Rolls, gi*avely. “Ye’ll mind this, my lord, that the 
accused is no on his oath ; he canna be called upon to criminate himself — 
that’s one of the first grand safeguards of our laws. Whatever ill posterity 
may hear of me, there’s no one in the country can say that Thomas Rolls was 
mans worn ! ” 

Rintoul left Dunnottar with feelings for which it would be difficult to find 
any description in words. There was a ringing in his ears as he drove across 
the bare moorland country about Dunnottar, a dizzy rush of all his thoughts. 
He had the feeling of a man who has just escaped a great personal danger, 
and scarcely realizes, yet is tremblingly conscious in every limb, of his escape. 
He threw the/eins to his groom when he approached Dunearn, and walked 
through the little town, in riie hope of seeing Nora, notwithstanding her 
disavowal of him, to pour out into her ears — the only ones into which he 
could breathe it — an account of this extraordinary interview. But it was in 
vain that he traced with eager feet every path she was likely to take, and 
walked past Miss Barbara’s house again and yet again, till the lamps began 
to be lighted in the tranquil streets and to show at the windows. The 
evening was chilly, and Rintoul was cold with agitation and anxiety. He 
felt more disconsolate than any Peri as he stood outside, and looking up 
saw the windows all closed so carefully, the shutters barred, the curtains 
drawn. There was no chance for him through these manifold mufflings, 
and he did not venture to go and ask for her, though she was so necessary to 
him — not only his love and his affianced wife, as he said to himself, but his 
only confidant — the sole creature in the world to whom he dared to speak of 
that which filled his mind and heart. It was with the most forlorn sense of 
abandonment and desolation that he turned his face toward the house in 
which he was so important, and so much love awaited him, but where nobody 
knew even the A B C of his history. His only confidant was offended Nora, 
who had vowed to see him no more. 


360 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

After this there ensued a brief pause in the history of the family in all its 
branches; it was a pause ominous, significant — like the momentary hush be- 
fore a storm, or the torrent’s smoothness ere it dashes below. The house of 
Lindores was like a besieged stronghold, mined, and on the eve of explosion. 
Trains were laid in all directions under its doomed bastions and the merest 
breath, a flash of lightning, a touch of electricity anywhere, would be enough 
to bring down its defences in thunders of ruin. It seemed to stand in a si- 
lence that could be felt, throwing up its turrets against the dull sky — a fore- 
boding about it which could not be shaken off. From every side assaults 
were preparing. The one sole defender of the stronghold felt all round him 
the storm which was brewing, but could not tell wdien or how it was to burst 
forth. 

The others were all heavy with their secrets — all holding back something 
— afraid to divulge the separate course which each planned to take for them- 
selves. A family will sometimes go on like this for a long time with the sem- 
blance of natural union and household completeness, while it has in reality 
dropped to pieces, and holds together only out of timidity or reluctance on 
the part of its members to burst the bonds of tradition, of use and wont. But 
on one point they were still united. Carry was the one subject upon which 
all were on the alert, and all agreed. Rintoul had no eyes for Edith’s danger, 
and Edith — notwithstanding many an indication which would have been plain 
enough to her in other circumstances — never even suspected him ; but about 
Carry the uneasiness was general. 

“What is that fellow doing hanging about the place? — he’s up to no 
good,” Rintoul sakl, even in the midst of his own overwhelming embarrass- 
ments. 

“ I wonder,” was Lady Lindores’ s way of putting it — not without a desire 
to make it apparent that she disapproved of some one else — “ I wonder how 
John Ejrskine, kno-wing so much as he does, can encourage Mr. Beaufort to 
stay.” 

“ Mamma ! how can you suppose he encourages him — can he turn him 
out of his house ? ” cried Edith, flaming up in instant defence of lier lover, 
and feeling her own guilt and hidden consciousness in every vein. 

There was no tender lingering now upon Beaufort’s name, no hesitation 
or slip into the familiar “ Edward.” As for Rintoul, he had l>een provi- 
dentially, as he felt, delivered from the necessity of speaking to his father of 
his own concerns by being called away suddenly to the aid of a fellow-officer 
in trouble. It tore his heart, indeed, to be out of reach of Nora ; but as 
Nora would not see him the loss was less Ihan it might have been, and the 
delay a gain. Edith’s story was in abeyance altogether ; and their mourning, 
though it was merely of the exterior, brought a pause in the ordinary inter- 
course of social life. They did not go out, nor receive their neighbors — it 
was decorous to refrain even from the very mild current of society in the 
country. And this, indeed, it was which made the pause possible. Lord 
Lindores was the only member of the family who carried on his usual activi- 
ties unbroken, or even stimulated, by the various catastrophes that had oc- 
curred. He was more anxious than ever about the county hospitals and the 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


361 


election that must take place next year ; and he began to employ and turn to 
his own advantage the important influence of the Tinto estate, which he, as 
the little heir’s grandfather, was certainly entitled, he thought, to consider 
as his own. 

Little Tomm.y was but four ; and though, by a curious oversight. Lord 
Lindores had not been ir:^iied as a guardian, he was, of course, in the cir- 
cumstances, his daughter’s natural guardian who was Tommy’s. This acces- 
sion of power almost consoled him for the destruction of his hopes in respect 
to Millefleurs. He reflected that, after all, it was a more legitimate way of 
making himself indispensable to his country to wield the influence of a great 
landed proprietor, than by any merely domestic means; and with Tinto in his 
hands, as well as Lindores, no man in the county could stand against him. 
The advantage was all the greater, since Pat Torrance had been on the oppo- 
site side of politics, so that this might reasonbly be concluded a county gained 
to the Government. To be sure. Lord Lindores was far too high-minded, 
and also too safe a man, to intimidate, much less bribe. 

But a landlord’s legitimate influence is never to be undervalued ; and he 
felt sure that many men who had been kept under, in a state of neutrality, 
at least, by Torrance’s rough and brutal partisanship, would now be free to 
take the popular side, as they had always wished to do. The influence of 
Tinto, which he thus appropriated, more than doubled his own in a moment. 
There could not have been a more perfect godsend to him than Torrance’s 
death. 

But the more he perceived and felt the importance of this, the more did 
the presence of Beaufort disturb and alarm him. It became daily a more 
urgent subject in the family. When Lord Lindores got vague information 
that Carry had met somewhere her old lover on the roadside — which some- 
body, of course, saw and reported, though it did not reach his ears till long 
after — his dim apprehensions blazed into active alarm. He went to his wife 
in mingled anger and terror. To him, as to so many husbands, it always ap- 
peared that adverse circumstances were more or less his w ife’s fault. He told 
her what he had heard in a tempest of indignation. “ You must tell her it 
w'on’t do. You must let her know that it’s indecent, that it’s shameful. 
Good heavens ! just think what you are doing ! — letting your daughter, your 
own daughter, disgrace herself in the sight of the whole county. Talk about 
the perceptions of women ! they have no perceptions — they have no moral 
sense, I believe. Tell Carry I will not have it. If you don’t, I must inter- 
fere.” 

I.ady Lindores received this fulmination with comparative silence. She 
scarcely said anything in her own defence. She w^as afraid to speak lest she 
should betray that she had known more than her husband knew, and w^as still 
more deeply alarmed than he was. She said, “You are very unjust,” but 
she said no more. That evening she wrote an anxious note to John Erskine; 
the next day she drove to Tinto with more anxiety than hope. 

Already a great change had come over that ostentatious place. The great 
rooms were shut up; the less magnificent ones had already begun to undergo 
a transformation. The large, meaningless ornaments were being carried 
away. An air of home and familiar habitation had come about the house. 
Carry, in her widow’s cap, had begun to move lightly up and down with a 
step quite unlike the languor of her convalescence. She was not convales- 
cent any longer, but had begun to bloom with a soft color and subdued air 
of happiness out of the cloud that had enveloped her so long. To see her so 
young (for her youth seemed to have come back), so fresh and almost gay, 
gave a wonderful pang of mingled pain and delight to her mother’s heart ; it 

16 


362 


THE LADIES LIHDORES, 


showed what a hideous cloud that had been in which her life had been swal- 
lowed up, and to check her in lier late and dearly-bought renewal of existence 
was hard, and took away all Lady Lindores’s courage. But she addressed 
herself to her task with all the strength she could muster. “ My darling, I 
am come to — talk to you,” she said. 

‘‘I hope so, mother dear; don’t you always ^t-*|k to me? and no one so 
sweetly,” Carry said, witli her lips upon her mother’s cheek, in that soft fore- 
stalling of all rebuke which girls know the secret of. Perhaps she suspected 
something of what was coming, and would I'.ave stopped it if she could. 

“ Ah, Carry ! but it is serious — very serious, dear. How am I to do 
it? ” cried Lady Lindores ; “ the hrst time I see light in my child’s eye and 
color on her cheek, how am I to scold and threaten? You know I would 
not if I could help it, my Carry, my darling.” 

“ Threaten, mamma ! Indeed, that is not in your way.” 

No, no ; it is not. But you are mother enough yourself to know that 
when anything is wrong we must give our darlings pain even for their own 
dear sakes. Isn’t it so, Carry ? There are things that a mother cannot keep 
still and see her dear child do.” 

Carry withdrew from behind her mother’s chair, where she had been 
standing, with one arm round her, and the other tenderly smoothing down 
the fur round Lady Lindores’s throat. She came and sat down opposite to 
her mother, facing her, clasping her hands together, and looking at her with 
an eager look, as if to anticipate the censure in her eyes. To meet that gaze 
which she had not seen for so long, which came from Carry’s youth and hap- 
pier days, was more and more difficult every moment to Lady Lindores. 

“Carry, I don’t know how to begin. You know, my darling, that — 
your father is unhappy about you. He thinks, you know — perhaps more 
than you or I might do — of what people will say.” 

“Yes, mother.” 

Carry gave her no assistance, but sat looking at her, with lips apart and 
that eager look in her eyes — the look that in old times had given such a 
charm to her face — as if she would have read your thought before it came to 
words. 

“ Carry, dear, I am sure you know what I mean. You know — Mr. Beau- 
fort is at Dalrulzian.” 

“ Edward ? Yes, m >ther,” said Carry, a blush springing up over her face ; 
but for all that she did not shrink from her mother’s eyes. And then her 
tone sank into infinite softness — “ Poor Edward ! Is there any reason why 
he shouldn’t be there ? ”, 

“Oh, Carry!” cried Lady Lindores, wringing her hands, “you know 
well enough — there can only be one reason why, in the circumstances, he 
should wish to continue there.” 

“ I think I heard that my father had invited him, mamma.” 

Yes. I was very much against it. That was when he was supposed to 
be with Lord Millefleurs — when it was supposed, ypu know, that Edith — 
and your father could not ask the one without asking the other.” 

“ In short,” said Carry, in her old, eager way, “it was when his coming 
here was a misery to me— when it might have been made the cause of out- 
rage and insult to me— when there were plans to wring my heart, to expose 
me to — Oh, mother ! what are you making me say? It is all over, and I 
want to think only charitably, only kindly. My father would have done it 
for his own plans. And now he objects, when he has nothing to do with it.” 

“ Carry, take care ! take care ! There can never be a time in which your 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 363 

father has nothing to do with you : if he thinks you are forgetting — what is 
best in your position — or giving people occasion to talk.” 

“I have been told here,” said Carry, with a shiver, looking round her, 
** that no one was afraid I would go wrong ; oh no — that no one was afraid 
of that. I was too proud for that.” The color all ebbed away from her 
face ; she raised her head higher and higher. ‘‘ I \^s told — that it was very 
well known there was no fear of that ; but that it would be delightful to 
watch us together, to see how we would manage to get out of it — and that 
we should be thrown together every day. That — oh no — there was no fear I 
should go wrong ! This was all said to your daughter, mother ; and it was 
my father’s pleasure that it should be so.” 

“Oh, Carry, my poor darling ! No, dear — no, no. Your father never 
suspected ” 

“ My father did not care. He thought, too, that there was no fear I 
should go wrong. Wrong ! ” cried Carry, starting from her seat in her sud- 
den passion. “Do you know, mother, that the worst wrong I could have 
done with Edward would have been whiteness, innocence itself, to what you 
have made me do — oh, what you have made me do, all those hideous, hor- 
rible years! ” 

Lady Lindores rose, too, her face working piteously, the tears standing 
in her eyes. She held out her hands in appeal, but said nothing, while 
Carry, pale, with her eyes shining, poured forth her wrong and her passion. 
She stopped herself, however, with a violent effort. “I do not want even 
to think an unkind thought,” she said — “now: oh no, not an unkind 
thought. It is over now — no blame, no reproach; only peace — peace. 
That is what I wish. I only admire,” she cried, with a smile, “ that my 
father should have exposed me to all that in the lightness of his heart and 
without a compunction; and then, when God has interfered — ^\hen death 
itself has sheltered and protected me — that he should step in, par example^ 
in his fatherly anxiety now ! ” 

“You must not speak so of your father. Carry,” said Lady Lindores. 
“His M’ays of thinking may not be yours — or even mine; but if you are 
going to scorn and defy him, it must not be to me.” 

Carry put her mother down in her chair again with soft, caressing hands, 
kissing her in an acc^s of mournful tenderness. “You have it all to bear, 
mother dear — both my indignation and his — what shall I call it ? — his over- 
anxiety for me ; but listen, mother, it is all different now. Everything 
changes. I don’t know how to say it to you, for I am always your child, 
whatever happens ; but mamma, don’t you think there is a time when obe- 
dience — is reasonable no more ? ” 

“ It appears that Edith thinks so, too,” Lady Lindores said, gravely. 

But, Carry, surely your father may advise, and I may advise. There will 
be remarks made ; there will be gossip, and even scandal. It is so soon— not 
more than a month. Carry, dear, I think I am not hard ; but you must 
not — indeed you must not ” 

“What, mother?” said Carry, standing before her proudly, with her 
nead aloft. Lady Lindores gazed at her, all inspired and glowing, trembling 
with nervous energy and life. She could not put her fears, her suspicions, 
into words. She did not know what to say. What was it she wanted to 
say ? to warn her against — what ? There are times wlien it is essential for 
us to be taken, as the French say, at the half-word, not to be compelled to 
put our terrors or our hopes into speech. Lady Lindores could not name 
the ultimate object of her alarm. It would :^ve been brutal, tier lips 
would not have framed the words. 


364 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


“ You know what I mean, Carry ; you know what I mean,” was all that 
she could say. 

*‘Itis hard,” Carry said, “ that I should have to divine the reproach 
and then reply to it. I think that is too much, mother. I am doing nothing 
which I have any reason to blush for.” But as she said this she did blush, 
and put her hands up "to her cheeks to cover the flame. Perhaps this 
sign of consciousness convinced the mind which Lady Lindores only ex- 
cited, for she said, suddenly, with a tremulous tone, “ I will not pretend to 
misunderstand you, mamma. You think Edward should go away. From 
your point of view it is a danger to me. But we do not see it in that light. 
We have suflered a great deal, both he and I. Why should he forsake me 
when he can be a comfort to me now ? ” 

‘‘ Carry, Carry ! ” cried her mother, in horror. A comfort to you 1 
when it is only a month, scarcely a month, since ” 

“ Don’t speak of that ! ” Carry cried, putting up her hands. “ What if 
it had only been a day ? What is it to me what people think ? Their think- 
ing never did me any good while I had to suffer ; why should I pay any 
attention to it now ? ” 

“But we must, so long as we live in the world at all, pay attention to 
it,” cried Lady Lindores, more and more distressed; “ for your own sake, 
my dearest, for your children’s sake.” 

“ My children ! What do they know? they are babies. For my own 
sake ? Whether is it better, do you think, to be happy or to be miserable, 
mother? I have tried the other so long. I want to be happy now. I mean,” 
said Carry, clasping her hands, “ to be happy now. Is it good to be miser- 
able ? Why should I ? Even self-sacrifice must have an object. Why should 
I ? why should I ? Give me a reason for it, and I will think ; but you give 
me no reason ! ” she cried, and broke off abruptly her agitated countenance 
shining in a sort of rosy cloud. 

There was a pause, and they sat and gazed at each other, or at least the 
mother gazed at Carry, with all the dismay ©f a woman who had never 
offended against the proprieties in her life, and yet could not but feel the most 
painful sympathy with the offender. And not only was she anxious about the 
indecorum of the moment, but full of disturbed curiosity to know if any de- 
termination about the future had been already come to. On this subject, 
however, she did not venture to put any question, or even suggest anything 
that might precipitate matters. Oh, if John Erskine w'ould but obey her — if 
he would close his doors upon the intruder ! Oh, if he himself (poor Edward ! 
her heart bled for him too, though she tried to thwai't him) would but see 
what \vas right and go aw'ay ! 

“Dear,” said Lady Lindores, faltering, “I did not say you might not 
meet — whoever you pleased — in a little while. Of course, nobody expects 
you at your age to bury yourself. But in the circumstances — at such a mo- 
ment — indeed, indeed, Carry, I think he would act better, more like what we 
had a right to expect of him, if he were to consider you before himself and 
go aw'ay.” 

“ Wliat we had a right to expect ! What had you a right to expect ? 
What have you ever done for him but betray him ? ” cried Carry, in her agi- 
tation. She stopped to get breath, to subdue herself, but it was not easy. 

“ Mother, I am afraid of you,” she said. “ I might have stood against my 
father if you had backed me up. I am afraid of you. I feel as if I ought to 
fly aw^ay from you, to hide myself sornew’here. You might make me throw 
away my life again — buy it from me witli a kiss and a smile. Oh no, no ! ” 
she cried, almost violently; “no, no, I will not let my happiness go again 1” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


36s 


Carry, what is it ? what is it ? What are you going to do ? ” 

Carry did not reply ; her countenance was flushed and feverish. She rose 
up and stood, with her arm on the mantel-piece looking vaguely into her own 
face in the mirror. “I will not let my happiness go again,” she said over 
and over to herself. 

John Erskine carried his own reply to Lady Lindores’s letter before she 
returned from this expedition to Tinto. He, too, was one of those who felt 
for Lady Car an alarm which neither she nor Beaufort shared; and he had al- 
ready been so officious as to urge strongly on his guest the expediency of go- 
ing away — advice which Beaufort had not received in, as people say, the 
spirit in which it was given. He had not been impressed by his friend’s dis- 
interested motives and anxiety to serve his true interests, and had roundly 
declared that he would leave Dalrulzian if Erskine pleased, but no one should 
make him leave the neighborhood while he could be of the slightest comfort 
to her. 

John was not wholly disinterested, perhaps, any more than Beaufort. He 
seized upon Lady Lindores’s letter as the pretext for a visit. He had not 
been admitted lately when he had gone to Lindores — the ladies had been out, 
or they had been engaged, or Lord Lindores had seized hold upon him about 
county business; and since the day when they parted at Miss Barbara’s door 
he had never seen Edith save for a moment. He set off eagerly, without, it is 
to be feared, doing anything to carry out Lady Lindores’s injunctions. Had 
he not exhausted every argument ? He hurried off to tell her so, to consult 
with her as to what he could do. Anything that brought him into contact 
and confidential intercourse with either mother or daughter was a happiness 
to him. And he made so much haste that he arrived at Lindores before 
she had returned from Tinto. 

The servant who opened the door to him was young and indiscreet. Had 
the butler been at hand, as it was his duty to be, it is possible that what was 
about to happen might never have happened. But it was a young footman, 
a native, one who was interested in the family, and liked to show his interest. 
“ Her ladyship's no at home, sir,” he said to John; “but,” he added, with 
a glow of pleasure, “Lady Edith is in the drawing-room.” 

It may be supposed that John was not slow to take advantage of this in- 
timation. He walked quite decorously after the man, but he felt as if he 
were tumbling head over heels in his eagerness to get there. When the door 
was closed upon them, and Edith, rising against the light at the end of the 
room, in front of a great window, turned to him, with a little tremulous cry 
of wonder and confusion, is it necessary to describe their feelings? John took 
her hands into both of his without any farther preliminaries, saying “At 
last ! ” with an emotion and delight so profound that it brought the tears to 
his eyes. And Edith, for her part, said nothing at all, did not even look at 
him, in her agitation. There had been no direct declaration, proposal, ac- 
ceptance between them. There was nothing of the kind now. Amid all the 
excitements and anxieties of the past weeks these prefaces of sentiment seemed 
to have b«;en jumped over — to have become unnecessary. They had been 
long parted, and they had come together “ at last ! ” 

It may probably be thought that this was abrupt — too little anxious and 
doubtful on his part, too ready and yielding on hers. But no law can be laid 
down in such cases, and they had a right, like other people, to their own way. 
And then the meeting was so unexpected ; he had not time to think how a 
lover should look, nor she to remember what punctilios a lady should require. 
That a man should go down on his knees to prefer his suit had got to be old- 


366 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


fashioned in the time of their fathers and mothers. In Edith’s days the 
siraightforvvardness of a love in which the boy and girl had first met in frank 
equality, and afterwards the man and woman in what they considered to be 
honest friendship and liking, was the best understood phase. They were to 
each other the only possible mates, the most perfect companions in the world. 

1 have so wanted to speak to you ! ” he cried ; “in all that has happened 
this is what I have wanted ; everything would have been bearable if 1 could 
have talked it over — if I could have explained everything io youR 

‘‘ But I understood all the time,” Edith said. 

There is something to be said, perhaps, for this kind of love-making, too. 

And the time flew as never time flew before — as time has always flown 
under such circumstances ; and it began to grow dark before they knew ; for 
the days were creeping in, growing short, and the evenings long. It need not 
be said that they liked the darkness — it was more delightful than the finest 
daylight ; but it warned them that they might be interrupted any moment, 
and ought to have put them on their guard. Lady Lindores might come in, 
or even Lord Lindores, which was worse ; or, short of those redoubtable per- 
sonages, the servants might make a sudden invasion to close the windows, 
which would be worst of all ; even this fear, however, did not break the spell 
which enveloped them. They were at the end of the room, up against the 
great window, which was full of the gray evening sky, and formed the most 
dangerous background in the world to a gi-oup of two figures very close to- 
gether, forming but one outline against the light. They might, one would 
think, have had sense enough to recollect that they were thus at once made evi- 
dent to whosoever should come in. But they had no sense, nor even caution 
enough, to intermit their endless talking, whispering, now and then, and lis- 
ten for a moment to anything which might be going on behind them. When 
it occurred to Edith to point out how dark it was getting John had just en- 
tered upon a new chapter, and found another branch of the subject upon 
which there were volumes to say. 

“ For look here,” he said, what will your father say to me, Edith? I 
am neither rich nor great. 1 am not good enough for you in any way. No 
— no man is good enough for a girl like you — but I don’t mean that. When 
I came first to Dalrulzian and I saw what a little place it was, I was sick 
with disgust and disappointment. I know why now — it was because it was 
not good enough for you. I roam all over it every day thinking and think- 
ing, ‘It is not half good enough for her. How can I ask her to go there ? 
How can I ask her father ? ’ ” 

Oh, how can you speak such nonsense, John ! If it is good enough for 
you, it is good enough for me. If a room is big or little, what does that 
matter ? And as for my father ” 

“ It is your father I am afraid of,” John said. “I think Lady Lindores 
would not mind ; but your father will think it is throwing you away ; he vyill 
think I am not good enough to tie your shoe — and he will be quite right — 
quite right,” cried the young man, with fervor. 

“In that case,” said a voice behind them in the terrible twilight — a voicfe 
at the sound of which their arms unclasped, their hands leaped asunder as by 
an electric shock ; never was anything more sharp, more acrid, more incisive, 
than the sound — “ in that case, Mr. Erskine, your duty as a gentleman is 
very clear before you. There is only one thing to do — go ! the way is 
clear.” 

“Lord Lindores!” John had made a step back in his dismay, but he 
still stood against the light, his face turned, astonished, toward the shadows 
close by him, which had approached without warning. Edith had melted 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


367 


and disappeared away into the gloom, where there was another shadow apart 
from the one which confronted John, catching on the whiteness of its coun- 
tenance all the light in the indistinct picture. A sob, a quickened breathing 
ill the background, gave some consciousness of support to the unfortunate 
young hero so rudely awakened out of his dream, but that was all. 

“ Her father, at your service — entertaining exactly the sentiments that 
you have attributed to him, and only surprised that, with such just views, a 
man who calls himself a gentleman ” 

“Robert !” came from behind, in a voice of keen remonstrance; and 
“ Father ! ” with a cry of indignation. 

“A man who calls hirnself a gentleman,’’ said Lord Lindores, deliber- 
ately, “ should play the domestic traitor, and steal into the affections — what 
she calls her heart, I suppose — of a silly girl.” 

Before Jolm could reply his outline against the window had again become 
double. Edith stood beside him, erect, with her arm within his. The touch 
filled the young man with a raptuie of strength and courage. He stopped 
her as she began to speak. “Not you, dearest, not you; I,” he said, 
“ Lord Lindores, I am guilty. It is true what you say, I ought to have gone 
away. Had I known in time, I should have gone away.” (“ Yes, it would 
have been right this in an undertone to Edith, who at these words had 
grasped his arm tighter.) “But such things are not done by rule. What 
can I do now ? We love each other. If she is not rich she would be happy 
with me — not great, but happy; that’s something ! and near home. Lord 
Lindores ! I don’t stand upon any right I had to speak to her — perhaps I 
hadn’t any right — I beg your pardon heartily, and I don’t blame you for 
being angry. ” 

Perhaps it was not wonderful that the father, thus addressed, with his 
wife murmuring remonstrance behind him, and his daughter before him stand- 
ing up in defiance at her lover’s side, should have been exasperated beyond 
endurance. “Upon my soul ! ” he cried. He was not given to exclam- 
ations, but what can a man do? Then, after a pause, “That is kind,” in 
his usual sharp tone — “very kind; you don’t blame me ! Perhaps, with so 
much sense at your command, you will approve of me before all’s done. 
Edith, come away from that man’s side — this instant ! ” he cried, losing his 
temper, and stamping his foot on the ground. 

“ Papa ! no, oh, no — I cannot. I have chosen him, and he has 
chosen ” 

“ Leave that man’s side ! Do you hear me ? Leave him, or ” 

“ Robert ! Robert ! and for God’s sake, Edith, do what your father tells 
you. Mr. Erskine, you must not defy us.” 

“ I will not leave John, mother; you would not have left my father if you 
had been told — ^ — ” 

“ I will have no altercation,” said Lord Lindores. “I have nothing to 
say to you, Edith. Mr. Erskine, I hope, will leave my house when I tell him 
to do so.” 

“ Certainly I will — certainly! No, Edith darling, I cannot stay — it is 
not possible. We don’t give each other up for that ; but your father has 
the best right in his own house ” 

“ Oh, this is insupportable ! Your sentiments are too fine, Mr. Erskine 
of Dalrulzian ; for a little bonnet laird, your magnanimity is princely. I 
have a right, have I, in my own ” 

Here there suddenly came a lull upon the stormy scene, far more com- 
plete than when the wind falls at sea. The angry earl calmed down as never 
angry billows calmed. The pair of desperate lovers stole apart in a moment ; 


368 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


the anxious, all-beseeching mother seated herself upon the nearest chair, and 
said something about the shortening of the days. This complete cessation 
of all disturbance was caused by the entrance of a portly figure carrying one 
lamp, followed by another slimmer one carrying a second. The butler’s fine 
countenance was mildly illuminated by the light he carried. He gave a 
slight glance round him, with a serenity which made all these excited people 
shrink, in his indifferent and calmly superior vision. Imperturbable as a 
god, he proceeded to close the shutters and draw the curtains. John Erskine 
in the quiet took his leave like any ordinary guest. 

The mine had exploded — the mines were exploding under all the ramparts. 
This was the night when Rintoul came home from his visit ; and Lady Lin- 
dores looked forward to her son’s composure of mind and manner, and that 
good sense which was his characteristic, and kept him in agreement with his 
father upon so many points on which she herself was apt to take different 
views. It was the only comfort she could think of. Edith would not appear 
at dinner at all ; and her mother was doubly afraid now of the explanation 
of Carry’s sentiments which she would have to give to her husband. But 
Rintoul, she felt with relief, would calm everything down. He would bring 
in a modifying influence of out-door life and iinexaggerated sentiment. The 
commonplace, though it was one of the bitternesses of her life to recognize 
her son as its impersonification, is dearly welcome sometimes; and she looked 
forward to Rintoul’s presence with the intensesfc relief. She gave him a hint 
when he arrived of her wishes. “Occupy your father as much as you can,” 
she said. “ He has had several things to think of ; try and put them out of 
his head to-night.” 

“ I think I can promise I will do that, mother,” said Rintoul. The tone 
of his voice was changed somehow. She looked at him with a certain con- 
sternation. Was Saul also among the prophets? Had Rintoul something 
on his mind ? But he bore his part at dinner like a man, and talked and 
told his stories of the world — those club anecdotes that please the men. It 
was only after she had left the dining-room that Rintoul fell silent for a little. 
But before his father could so much as begin to confide to him what had hap- 
pened in the afternoon Rintoul drew his chair close to the table, planted his 
elbow upon it to support himself, and looked steadily into his father’s face. 
“ I should like to talk to you, if you don’t mind — about myself,” he said. 


CHAPTER XLVH. 

The profoundest of the many wounds inflicted upon Lord Lindores at this 
terrible period of his life was that which he thus received at the hands of 
Rintoul ; it was so altogether unexpected, so unlike anything that he had 
imagined of his son, that it took away his breath. For the first moment he 
could not speak in the bitterness of his disappointment and outraged expecta- 
tions. ** You,” he said at length, “ Rintoul ! I have been prepared for folly 
on the part of your sisters, but I have always felt I had a tower of strength 
in you.” 

“ There is no difference in me,” said Rintoul ; “ I should be just as ready 
to back you up about the girls as ever I was ; but,, if you will recollect, I 
never said a word about myself. I consider it as our duty to look after the 
girls. For one thing, they are not so well qualified to judge for themselves. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


369 


They see things all from one side. They don’t know the world. I wouldn’t 
let them sacrifice their prospects to a bit of silly sentiment ; but I never said 
a word about myself. That’s different. A man has a right to please himself 
as to who he’s going to marry, if he marries at all. Most fellows don’t mar- 
ry at all — at least, it’s usual to say so ; I don’t know that it’s true. If you’ll 
remember, when you spoke to me of Lady Reseda I never said anything one 
way or another. I have never committed myself. It has always been my de- 
termination in this respect to take my own way.” 

Lord Lindores was subdued by this calm speech. He was almost cowed by it . 
It was very different from Carry’s tears, and even from Edith’s impassioned de- 
fiance. Rintoul knew perfectly well what he was about. There was no excite- 
ment to speak of in his steady confidence in his own power. And his father knew 
very well that there was nothing to be done. A family scandal might indeed be 
made — a breach in their relations — a quarrel which would amuse the world. He 
might withdraw Rintoul’s allowance, or refuse to increase it, but this, though 
vexatious, was not in any way final ; for the estates were all strictly entailed, 
and his heir would have little difficulty in procuring what money he needed. 

It was like fighting against a rock to struggle against Rintoul. When 
their father worked himself up into a rage, and launched sharp phrases at the 
girls, bitter cuts and slashes of satire and fierce denunciations, these weapons 
cut into their tender flesh like knives, and they writhed upon the point of the 
paternal spear. But Rintoul did not care. A certain amount of vituperation 
was inevitable, he knew, and he did not mind it. His father might “ slang” 
him as much as he pleased ; fierce words break no bones, and he knew exactly 
how far it could go. Lord Lindores also knew this, and it had the most cu- 
rious composing and subduing effect upon him. 

What is the use of being angry, when the object of your anger does not 
care for it? There is no such conqueror of passion. If nobody cared, the 
hastiest temper would soon learn to amend itself. Lord Lindores was aware 
that Rintoul would hear him out to the end — that he would never, so to speak, 
turn a hair — that he would reply with perfect coolness, and remain entirely un- 
moved. It would be like kicking against a blank wall — a child’s foolish in- 
stinctive paroxym of passion. Therefore he was not violent with Rintoul, 
nor sharply satirical, except by moments. He did not appeal to his feelings, 
nor stand upon his own authority. If, indeed, he could not keep his exas- 
peration out of his voice, nor conceal his annoyance, he did this only because 
he could not help it, not with any idea of influencing Rintoul. But it was, 
indeed, a very serious blow which he had received — the most telling of all. 

“After this,” he said, “why should I go on struggling? What advan- 
tage will it be to me to change Lindores into a British peerage ? I could not 
enjoy it long in the course of nature, nor could I afford to enjoy it. And as 
for my son, he will have enough to do to get bread-and-butter for his numer- 
ous family. A season in town and a seat in the House of Lords will, after 
this, be perfectly out of the question.” 

“I suppose it’s just as likely as not that the House of Lords will be abol- 
ished before my time,” said Rintoul, calmly ; “ at least, they say say so.” 

“They say d — d nonsense, sir !” said the earl, touched at his tenderest 
point. “The House of Lords will outlive you and half a hundred like you. 
They don’t know Englishmen who say so. I had hoped to see my family 
advancing in power and influence. Here was poor Torrance’s death, for in- 
stance, coming in providentially to make up for Edith’s folly about Mille- 
fleurs. ” Here Lord Lindores made a little pause and looked at bis son. He 
had, beyond expectation, made, he thought, an impression upon him. “ Ah,” 
he said, “I see, you forgot the Tinto influence. You thought it was all up 
i6'*‘ 


370 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


with my claims when Millefleurs slipped through our fingers. On the con- 
trary, I never felt so like attaining my point as now.” 

“ That is not what I was thinking, father,” said Rintoul, in a slightly 
broken voice. He had risen from his chair and walked to the window, and 
stood there, keeping his face averted as he spoke. I cannot tell you,” he 
said, more earnestly, “ the effect it has upon me when you speak of getting 
an advantage from — what has happened. Somehow it makes my blood run 
cold. I’d rather lose everything I have than profit by that — accident. I 
can’t bear the idea. Besides,” he added, recovering himself, “ I wouldn’t 
build so upon it if I w'ere you. It’s all in Carry’s hand, and Carry will like 
to have things her own way.” 

“ This exhibition of sentiment in respect to Pat Torrance takes me alto- 
gether by surprise,” said Lord Lindores. “ I was not aware you had any 
such friendship for him. And as to Carry — Pooh ! Carry has not got a way 
of her own.” 

This subject, though it was so painful to Rintoul, brought the conversa- 
tion to an easier level. But when the young man had left him Lord Lin- 
dores remained for a long time silent, with his head in his hands, and a bit- 
terness of disappointment pervading his mind which, if it had not a very ex- 
alted cause, was still as keen as any tragedy could require. He had let 
things go as much as they would before he came to his kingdom ; but when 
Providence, with that strange sweep of all that stood before him, had cleared 
his way to greatness, he had sworn to himself that his children should all be 
made instrumental in bringing the old house out of its humble estate — that 
they should every one add a new honor to Lindores. Now he said to himself 
bitterly that it would have been as well if his brothers had lived, if he had 
never known the thorns that stud a coronet. What had the family gained ? 
His son would have been quite good enough for Nora Barrington if he had 
never been more than Robin Lindores ; and John Erskine would have been 
no great match for his daughter, even in the old times. 

It would have been as well for them if no change had come upon the 
fortunes of the family — if all had remained as they were born. When he 
thought of it there was a moment when he could have gnashed his teeth with 
rage and mortification. To have sworn like a trooper or wept like a w'oman 
would have been some relief to his feelings ; or even to clinch his hands and 
his teeth and stamp about the floor like a baffled villain on the Jitage.’ But he 
did not dare to relieve himself by any of these safety-valves of nature. He 
was too much afraid of himself to be melodramatic or hysterical. He sat 
and gnawed his nails and devoured his own heart. His house seemed to be 
tumbling about his ears like a house of cards. Why should he take any 
farther trouble about it? Neither money nor importance, nothing but love, 
save the mark ! idiocy— the passing fancy of boys and girls. Probably they 
would all hate each other in a year or two, and then they would understand 
what their folly had done for them. He thought of this with a vindictive 
pleasure ; but even of that indifferent satisfaction he could not be sure. 

Meanwhile there was, as may easily be supposed, the greatest excitement 
in the house. Rintoul told his mother and sister, and was half angered by 
their sympathy. Edith, who was herself in great agitation, received the in- 
timation with delight ; but this delight was quite distasteful to her brother, 
who stopped her by a wrathful request to her not to think this was a non- 
sensical affair likelier own. “I know what I’m about; but as for you, it is 
just a piece of idiocy,” at which poor Edith, aghast, retired into herself, 
wounded beyond description by this rejection of her sympathy. Having thus 
snubbed his sister, he defied the alarmed surprise and tempered disapproba- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


371 


tion with which his mother heard his story. “ I know that you Avere never 
a very great friend to Nora,” he said, “ I suppose, when another girl cuts 
out your own, you can’t be expected to be quite just. But my father and I 
understand each other,” said Rintoiil. 

He went out after having thus mowed down the ranks on either side of him, 
in a not uncomfortable frame of mind, carrying with him, in order to post it 
with his own hand, the letter to Colonel Barrington which he had informed 
his father had been written on the previous day. And this was quite true ; but 
having written it, Rintoul had carefully reserved it till after his interview with 
his father. Had Lord Lindores been very violent, probably Colonel Barrington 
would not have had his letter ; not that Rintoul would have given Nora up, 
but that he had, lilee most wise men, a strong faith in postponement. Wait 
a little and things will come right, was one of the chief articles of his creed ; 
but as Lord Lindores, kept down by the certainty that there was very little 
to be made of Rintoul except by giving him his own way, had not been vio- 
lent, the letter went without delay. 

Thus, as it sometimes happens, the worst of the family misfortunes was 
the one that was condoned most easily ; for certainly, in the matrimonial 
way, RintouFs failure was the worst. Daughters come and daughters go : 
sometimes they add to the family prestige, sometimes they do the reverse ; 
but at all events they go, and add themselves to other families, and cease to 
be of primary importance as concerns their own. But the eldest son, the 
heir, is in a very different position. If he does nothing to enrich the race, or 
add honor to it, the family stock itself must suffer. Nora Barrington would 
bring some beauty with her to Lindores; but not even beauty of an out-of- 
the-way kind — honest, innocent, straightforward, simple beauty, but no more 
— and no conned ions to speak of ; her uncle, the head of her family, being 
no more than a Devonshire M. P. This was very sad to think of. Rintoul, 
in his matter-of-fact way, felt it as much as any one. Tliere were moments 
even when he seemed to himself to have been unfairly dealt wuth by Provi- 
dence. He had not gone out of his way to seek this girl ; she had been put 
down before him; and it was hard that it should have so happened that one 
so little eligible should have been the one to catch his heart. But, to do him jus- 
tice, his heart being caught, he made no material resistance. He was entirely 
steadfast and faithful to his own happiness, which was involved. 

But it did not occur to him, as it might have done to a feebler mind, that 
he was in any way disabled from opposing the unambitious match of his sister 
in consequence of the similar character of his own. He held to his formula 
with all the solidity of judgment which he had always shown. When his 
mother pointed out to him his inconsistency he refused to see any inconsist- 
ency in it. “ I never would, and never did, say anything as to myself. I 
never meant to give up my own freedom. The girls — that’s quite different. 
It was your duty and my duty to do the best \\ e could for the girls. I say 
now, a stop should be put to Edith. Erskine’s a gentleman, but that’s all 
you can say. She wall never be anybody if she marries him; whereas, if she 
had not been a fool, what a far better thing for her to have had Millefleurs ! I 
should put a stop to it without thinking twice ; and I can’t imagine what 
my father means not to do it.” This was Rintoul’s opinion upon his sis- 
ters affairs. 

“ And supposing Colonel Barrington had been of the same opinion in re- 
spect to Nora?” I^ady Lindores said. 

“ In respect t.o Nora ? I consider,” said Rintoul, “that Nora is doing 
very well for herself. We are not ricii, but the title always counts. A fellow 
can’t shut his eyes. I know very well that there are a good many places 


372 


TME LADIES LIND ORES. 


where I — shouldn’t have been turned away, though you don’t think very 
much of me, mother. Colonel Barrington is not a fool ; he knows Nora 
couldn’t have been expected to do better. You see, cleverness is not every- 
thing, mamma.” 

“ I think you are very clever, Robin,” his mother said, with a smile and a 
sigh — a sigh of wonder that her son (always such a mystery to a woman) 
should feel and talk and think so unlike herself ; a smile that he should be so 
much justified in doing .so, so successful in it. Both the smile and the sigh 
were full of wonder and of pain. But she was comforted to think that Rin- 
toul, at least, was capable of something heavenly — of true love and disinter- 
ested affection. That was something, that was much, in the dearth of fame. 

Thus Rintoul’s marriage was consented to, while Edith’s was first per- 
emptorily denied, then grudgingly entertained, and made the subject of delays 
and procrastinations enough to have wearied out any pair of lover.s. But they 
had various consolations and helps to support them, the chief of which was 
that they lived so near each other, and were able to meet often and talk over 
in infinite detail every step that was taken, and all the objections seen by 
others, and all the exquisite reasons in favor of their love which were known 
to themselves. And Lady Lindoreswas from the first upon their side, though 
she respected her husband’s unwillingness to bestow his daughter so humbly. 
Carry was to her mother a standing admonition against any farther weakness 
on this point. In every word and step by which the young widow showed 
her thankfulness for her deliverance she struck with horror the fine sense of 
fitness and reverence which was in her mother’s mind. Lady Lindores had 
not been false in the sentiments of pity and remorseful regret with which she 
had heard of the death of Torrance. There are some souls which are so finely 
poised that they cannot but answer to every natural claim, even when against 
themselves. Had she been Torrance’s wife, all the privileges of freedom 
would not have emancipated her from that compassion for the man struck 
down in the midst of his life which took almost the shape of tenderness and 
sorrow. And when Carry exulted it gave her mother a pang with which her 
whole being shivered. God forbid that she should ever be instrumental in 
placing another creature in such a position as Carry’s ! She stood, very 
gently, but very firmly, against her husband on Edith’s behalf. She would 
not consent to interfere with the love and choice of her child. 

Carry adopted her sister’s cause with a still warmer devotion. She prom- 
ised her support, her help in every possible manner ; would have sanctioned 
an instant rebellious marriage, and settled half of her own large jointure upon 
Edith to justify the step, if .she could have had her own way ; and would 
scarcely listen to the suggestions of prudence. This nervous partisanship was 
not of any great advantage to the lovers, but still it gave them the consola- 
tion of sympathy. And by-and-by the whole county became aware of the 
struggle and took sides, with the warmest feeling. Old Sir James Mont- 
gomery, as everybody knows, had entertained other views ; but when he 
heard of Nora’s promotion, and of the position of affairs in general, his kind 
old heart was greatly moved. He went off instantly to talk over the matter 
with Miss Barbara Erskine at Dunearn, from whose house Nora had just de- 
parted. “To think that this should have been going on all the time, and 
you and me never the wiser,” the old general said — “ the little cutty ! But 
no doubt they were left in great tribulation as to what my lord the earl’s 
majesty would say.” 

“ Young persons have a great notion of themselves nowadays,” said Miss 
Barbara ; “they will not hear of advice from the like of you or me. “Yet 
I think Nora might have said a word to an old friend. I am getting blind 


THE LADIES LIN’D ORES. 


373 


and doited. I never suspected anything. What my heart was set on was to 
get her for my nephew John.’' 

“ Just that,” said Sir James, nodding his head ; that was my own idea. 
But, you see, John he has chosen for himself — and a bonny creature, too, if 
she is as good as she is bonny.” 

“ I am not very fond of the family. What are they but strangers ? My 
heart is most warm to them — that I know,” said Miss Barbara, But this 
was a very mild statement, and uttered with little vehemence, for Miss Bar- 
bara was not insensible to the pleasure of having an earl’s daughter in the 
family. “There is no doubt about the beauty, and there’s a great deal of 
good in her, from all I hear.” 

“ With those eyes, ye may be sure there’s no harm,” said Sir James, 
growing enthusiastic ; ‘‘ and I like the lad that had the sense to see what was 
in my little Nora. She’ll make a bonny countess, and I wish she was here, 
that I might give her a kiss and tell her so. But this Lady Edith is a bonny 
creature, too ; and as for Lord Lindores himself, he’s no stranger, you know ; 
he’s just little Robby Lindores that both you and me mind. The one that 
has raised a prejudice, I make no doubt, is just that foreign wife of his.” 

“ She is not foreign, that ever I heard.” 

“Well, well, maybe not according to the letter; but she has foreign 
ways, and without doubt it is her influence that has kept the family from set- 
tling down as we had a right to expect. My Lady Rintoul will set that right 
again. Bless me ! who would have thought that little Nora — But we must 
let by-gones be by-gones. Miss Barbara. We must just stand up for the 
young couple, and defeat the machinations of the foreign wife.” 

Sir James lauglied at this fine sentence of his, but yet he meant it ; and 
even Miss Barbara agreed that this stranger woman was, no doubt, at the 
bottom of the mischief. When Sir James departed the old lady felt herself 
nerved to a great exertion. By this time it was winter, and she went out 
but seldom, the pony-chaise being a cold conveyance ; but that night she 
electrified her household by ordering the “ carriage ” — the old carriage, never 
produced but orr occasions of great solemnity — for the next day. 

“ Where will ye be going ?” Janet asked, open-mouthed, after she had 
got over the shock of the announcement. But her mistress did not condescend 
to give her any answer. 

It was through Agnes, at a later hour, that information descended upon 
the household. “ Sae far as I can make out, she is just going to Lindores, 
to settle a’ about thae two marriages,” Agnes said, in great excitement. 

“ What two marriages ? Ye think of nothing but marriages,” said Janet. 

But nevertheless that excellent person was as much excited as any one 
when the huge vehicle drew up at the door next morning, and stood out in 
the rain to hear the orders which were given to the coachman. Agnes, seated 
within, in attendance on her mistress, gave her a little nod with her eyelids, 
as much as to say, who’s in the right now? To Lindores.” 

“Bless me!” said Janet, “ single women are aye so keen on that sub- 
ject. They would ken better if they had ever had a man o’ their ain.” 

And, indeed, Miss Barbara’s magnificent intention was to make a pro- 
posal to Lord Lindores which must, she could not doubt, make everything 
smooth. Lord Lindores was a gentleman, and took pains not to show the 
old lady, to whom the credit of the house of Dalrulzian was so dear that he 
did not think the Erskines good enough to mate with his family : which was 
also a laudable exercise of discretion ; for Miss Barbara was very strong in 
dates, and knew when the earldom of Lindores was founded, and who was 
the first of the family, as well as the exact period when the Erskines were 


374 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


settled at Dalrulzian. Lord Lindores forbore, partly out of good feeling, 
paitly from alarm, and partly because Miss Barbara’s offer was not one to be 
refused. If it should so happen that he might be compelled to give in, then 
the settlement upon Edith of Miss Barbara’s fortune would make a very dis- 
tinct difference in the case. He did not intend to give in, but still — The 
proposal was received with great politeness at least. 

“ There are many things to be taken into consideration,” he said. “ I 
had other plans — you will excuse me if I cannot give up my intentions in a 
moment because two young people have chosen to fall in love with each 
other.” 

“It is what we all have to do, my lord,” said Miss Barbara, who was 
old-fashioned, and gave every man his title. “It is the only thing, in my 
experience, that it is useless to fight against.” 

Then Lord Lindores, made her a fine bow, and declared that this was a 
most appropriate sentiment from a lady’s lips, but a man must be excused if 
he took a graver view. There was a sharp accent in his voice which not all 
his politeness could quite disguise. 

“For my part,” Miss Barbara said, “ I have just had to swallow my own 
disappointment and think nothing of it ; for what I had set my heart upon 
was to wed my nephew John to Nora Barrington, that now, it appears, in 
the arrangements of Providence, is to be your lordship’s daughter-in-law, my 
Lady Rintoul.” 

Lord Lindores jumped up at this as if a knife had been put into him. lie 
could scarcely trust himself to speak. “ I can’t allow it to be an arrange- 
ment of Providence,” he cried, bitterly, but recovered himself, and forced a 
smile upon his angry countenance, and assured Miss Barbara that her pro- 
posal was most generous. Pie gave her his arm to the drawing-room, in 
which Lady Lindores and Edith were sitting, and withdrew, with his face 
drawn into a certain wolfish expression which his wife was aware meant mis- 
chief, but without betraying himself in speech. When he got back to his 
library he launched a private anathema at the “ old witch ” who had taken it 
upon herself to interfere. But nevertheless in Lord Lindores’ s mind there 
arose the conviction that, though he never would consent, yet if he did — why, 
that Miss Barbara and her proposal were worth making a note of; and he 
did so accordingly. Miss Barbara, on her part, left the Castle half affronted, 
half mollified. She was angry that her proposal did not settle everything in 
a moment ; but she was touched by the sweetness of Edith, and a little 
moved out of her prejudices in respect to Lady Lindores. 

“ She has no foreign accent,” she said, suddenly, in the midst of the 
drive, to the astonishment of Agnes; “no more than any of us. And she 
lias none of that sneering way — my lord yonder, he just cannot contain him- 
self for spite and ill-will — but I cannot see it in her. No doubt she’s one of 
tiiein that is everybody’s body, and puts on a fine show, but nothing from 
the heart.” 

A few days after this another incident, which had no small bearing upon 
the story of one of these young pairs, occurred at Dalrulzian. Rintoul had 
never concealed his .opposition, but neither had it ever become a subject of 
personal conflict between John Erskine and himself. He had been absent for 
some time, and had just returned to Lindores, when some question about the 
boundaries of the estates made it expedient that there should be formal com- 
munications between the two houses. Rintoul undertook to be the mes- 
senger. He had been with his regiment for the last two months, and he had 
not inquired into local events. He was, therefore, not in the least prepared 
for the sight that encountered him when he knocked at John Erskine’s door. 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


375 


It was opened to him by Rolls, in all the glory of shining “blacks’^ and 
snowy neck-cloth, as composed, as authoritative, as fully in command of 
himself and everything about him, as he had ever been. Rintoul, though he 
was a lord and a soldier and a fine fellow, gave a jump backward which scat- 
tered the gravel on the path. “ Good Lord, Rolls ! ” he cried. It was not 
an agreeable surprise. He had done his best to forget Rolls, and he had 
succeeded. To liave so many painful associations thus recalled was unpleas- 
ant, and the sight of him, so suddenly, without warning, an undeniable 
shock. 

“Ay, my lord, it’s just Rolls,” said the butler, barring, as it were, his 
entrance. Rolls regarded the young man with a stern air ; and even when 
Rintoul, recovering himself, began to express pleasure at his return, and 
great interest in hearing how it was, the face of Rods remained unmoved. 
He changed his mind, however, about barring the entrance, and slowly 
showed Rintoul into the vacant dining-room, which he entered after him, 
shutting the door. 

“ I’ll easy tell your lordship how I got out,” he said ; “ but there’s mair 
pressing matter in hand. They tell me, my lord, that ye will not yield to 
have my maister, John Erskine of Dalrulzian, for Lady Edith’s man. I 
would like to hear if that’s true.” 

“It’s a sort of curious question to ask,” said Rintoul. “I might ask, 
what’s that to you. Rolls ? ” 

‘‘Ay, so ye might — it would be just like you,, my lord — but I do not think 
it would be politic in all the circumstances. What for are you opposing it ? 
Ye’re to marry Miss Nora, and get your ain will and pleasure. I wish her 
much joy, poor thing, and strength of mind to bear a’ that’s before her. 
What is your lordship’s objection to my maister, if I may make so bold as to 
ask ? ” 

“ You are not very complimentary,” said Rintoul, growing red. 

“ No, I’m no complimentary, my lord ; it’s no my line. Will you tell 
me what’s set you against this marriage ? for that is what I would like to 
ken.” 

Rintoul tried to laugh, though it would have pleased him better to knock 
his monitor down. “You must see. Rolls, that a thing like this is my own 
concern,” he said. 

“ It’s my concern as well,” said Rolls. “ There’s mair between you and 
me, my lord, than I’m wanting to tell ; but if I was in your lordship’s place I 
would not rin counter to them that has proved themselves your best friend.” 

“Rolls! what are you doing here?” cried John Erskine, with amaze- 
ment, suddenly opening the door. 

The countenance of Rolls was very impassive. “ I was giving my Lord 
Rintoul an account of my marvellous deliverance out o’ my prison, sir,” he 
said, “and how it was thought I had suffered enough in my long v.^ait 
for the trial. And that was true. Much have I suffered, and many a thought 
has gone through my head. I’m real ripened in my judgment, and awfu’ well 
acquainted with points o’ law. But I hope I may never hev anything more 
ado with such subjects — if it be not upon very urgent occasion,” Rolls said. 
And he withdrew, with a solemn bow to Rintoul, in his usual methodical and 
important way. 

Rintoul had come to see John Erskine upon a matter of personal busi- 
ness; but they had never ceased to be friends — as good friends, that is, as 
they had ever been. And the similarity of their situation no doubt awak- 
ened new sympathies in their minds. At least, whatever was the cause, this 
meeting did much to draw them together. It was now that Rintoul showed 


376 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


to John the real good feeling that was in him. “ I have not been on your 
side, I confess,” he said. “ I have thought Edith might do better. I don’t 
hide it from you. But you need not fear that I will stand in your way. I’m 
in the same box myself. My lord likes my affair just as little as he likes 
yours. But, of course, if she sticks fast to you — as she'll certainly do — what 
can he make of it ? Everything must come right in the end.” 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

Thus, between threats and promises, and patience and obstinacy, it came 
gradually to pass that Lord Lindores had to yield. He made that winter a 
very unhappy one to his family — and it was not more agreeable to himself ; 
for it was not long before he arrived at the conviction that he could make 
nothing by his opposition. In Rintoul’s case this had been evident to him 
from the very first, but he had tried for some time to delude himself with the 
idea that Edith would and must yield to his will. The successive stages of 
wrath, bewildered surprise, impatient certainty, and then of a still more dis- 
agreeable conviction that, whatever he might say or do, he would not over- 
come this girl, went over him one after another, irritating and humiliating 
his arbitrary spirit. 

A father may consent to the fact that, beyond a certain point, he cannot 
coerce his full-grown son; but to be opposed and vanquished by a chit of a 
girl is hard upon him ; to see a soft, small creature, whom he could almost 
blow away, whom he could crush in his hand like a butterfly, standing up in 
all the force of a distinct and independent being before him, and asserting her 
own will and judgment against his — this was almost more than he could bear. 
He came, however, gradually to a perception of what can and what can not 
be done in the way of moral compulsion. It had succeeded wdth Carry, and 
he had not been able at first to imagine that it would not succeed equally with 
Edith ; but gradually his mind was undeceived. He had in reality given up 
the contest long before he would confess to himself, and still longer before he 
would allow to the world, that it was so. If he could do nothing else, he 
would at least keep his household in suspense, and make the cup as bitter as 
possible to them before they should be allowed to touch the sweet. 

Lord Lindores, with all these vexations upon his head, experienced for a 
moment an absolute pause in his individual career and prospects. He was 
assailed with that disgust which is one of the curses of age and experience. 
Cui bono ? — it is the oldest of reflections and the most persistent. To what 
good is all the work and labor under the sun? What did it matter to him to 
gain an empty distinction if his children were to melt away on all sides of him 
and merge into the lower classes ? — which was how, in a moment of natural 
exasperation, he represented the matter to himself. But afterward there 
was a reaction, as was equally natural. He reflected that he was only fifty- 
five, and that what a man enjoys himself is more to him than anything his 
grandchildren are likely to enjoy. If he was sure of never having any grand- 
children it would still be worth his while to be Lord Dunearn in the peerage 
of Great Britain, and take his seat and wear his robes in Westminster. Till 
these glories were attained, what was he ? A mere Scots lord, good for 
nothing. 

A man’s children are not the only interests he has in life j especially when 


THE LADIES LTNDORES, 


377 


they are married he can shake them off — he can re-enter the world without 
encumbrance. And Lord Lindores remembered that life and the pleasures 
of his rank could be enjoyed soberly with his wife at a moderate expense, if 
the young people were all off his hands. He had been but an uncomfortable 
husband of late years ; and yet he loved his wife, as she loved him, in frequent 
disagreements, in occasional angers and impatiences, and much disappoint- 
ment. What would become of the world if love did not manage to hold its 
footing through all these ? The boys and girls of the high-flown kind are of 
the opinion that love is too feeble to bear the destruction of the ideal. But 
that is all these young persons know. Love has the most robust vitality in 
the world — it outlives everything. 

Lord Lindores was often irritated beyond description by his wife, who 
would not understand his ways, and was continually diverging into ridiculous 
by-paths of her own. And she was more disappointed in him — more hurt 
and mortified by his shortcomings than words can say. But yet they loved 
each otlier — so much, that it gradually began to dawn upon him, with a 
sense of solace, that when the House of Lords called upon him, as he hoped, 
he and she together, without any young people to trouble them, would yet 
take their pleasure together, and enjoy it and their elevated position, and be 
able to afford it. which was the best of all. She, at fifty, was still a hand- 
some woman ; and he had a presence which many younger men might have 
envied. 

It is doubtful whether the imagination of Lady Lindores would have been 
equally delighted with this dream ; but it would have pleased her to know that 
he looked forward to it, which is next best. Animated by this thought, 
Lord Lindores gathered himself together and returned to public business 
with all his heart and soul. He took possession unhesitatingly of the Tinto 
power and influence; Torrance had opposed him in politics, and thus neu- 
tralized the advantage of a family union against which nothing in the county 
eould stand. But now, with a sigh of satisfaction, Lord Lindores drew into 
his hand the influence of Tinto too. 

This went on for some time with little warning of the insecurity of tenure 
by which he held his power. Beaufort had at last withdrawn from Dalrul- 
zian, though it was not absolutely certain that he had left the neighborhood. 
The minds of the family were, however, eased by his abandonment of the 
ground so far. And Lady Car lived very quietly, seldom making her appear- 
ance out of her own grounds, and never once appearing at Lindores. She 
would not, indeed, on any argument, return to her old home. Though she 
was urged by her mother and sister with many soft entreaties, Carry would 
never yield on this, point. Her countenance seemed to blanch when it was 
suggested, though she would give no reason but a tremulous, oft-repeated 
“No, no ; oh, no, no ! ” When she drove out she would sometimes call at 
the door to fetch them, sometimes to convey them home ; but they could not 
induce her to cross the familiar threshold. She was uneasy even in the very 
neighborhood of the house, and breathed more freely when it was out of sight. 

This extraordinary objection to her father’s house kept her almost a pris- 
oner in her own ; for where could a widow of but a few months go except to 
her parents ? No other visiting was possible. She was not even, they 
thought, very desirous of Edith’s society, but liked to be alone, interesting 
herself in the alterations of furniture and new arrangements she was making : 
a great many of the faded grandeurs upon which Pat Torrance prided himself 
had already been put away. For the moment this was the only sign of feel- 
ing herself her own mistress which Lady Car displayed. Other revolutions, 
however, were at hand. 


378 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


There came a moment when it happened that one of the orders Lord Lin- 
dores had given was disobeyed, and when an explanation was asked, the an- 
swer given was, that Lady Car herself had given other orders. This irritated 
her father greatly, and he made up his mind that the uncertainty in which 
things were could exist no longer — that he must have an explanation with his 
daughter. He set out for this purpose with a little impatient determination 
to bring Carry to her senses. He had been tolerating much which it was 
ridiculous to go on tolerating. All the family had humored her, he felt, as 
if she had been an inconsolable widow, broken-hearted, and incapable of any 
exertion. At this he could not but smile within himself as he thought of it. 

It was a pity, perftaps, for Torrance, poor fellow ; but it could not be 
doubted that it was a most fortunate accident for Car. To be his wife, per- 
haps, had its disagreeables, but there could be no more desirable position 
than that of his widow ; and to indulge Carry’s whims as they had all been 
doing, and keep every annoyance out of her way, as if she had been heart- 
broken, was too absurd. He decided that it would be well to have a clear 
understanding once for all. She was left by the will in uncontrolled author- 
ity, and it was full time to show her that this did not, of course, interfere 
with the authority of her father, who was her natural guide and protector. 
“ Your husband, of course, took this into consideration,” he intended to say. 
But it cannot be denied that he had to brace himself up- for this interview, 
with a clear sense that it might be a painful one ; and that, as he went along. 
Lord Lindores did what was a great tribute to the altered position of Carry 
— arranged the subjects of their interview in his mind, and settled with him- 
self what he was to say. 

A great deal can happen in a neighborhood, even when it is full of gossip- 
ing society, without reaching the ears of the persons most intimately con- 
cerned ; and Lord Lindores had been kept in ignorance of much which had 
alarmed and disquieted his wife. She was aware — but he was not — that 
Beaufort still lingered in the vicinity ; not living, indeed, in one place, but 
making frequent expeditions from Edinburgh or from the farther north, 
sometimes to other little towns in the neighborhood, from which he could 
come for the day, or even for a few hours, to see Carry in her solitude. 

Lady Lindores had discovered this with all the pain of anxiety and wounded 
disapproval — wounded, that Carry could think it right to do what seemed to 
herself so little suited to the dignity and delicacy of her position ; and though 
scarcely a word had been said between them on the subject, it had brought 
pain and embarrassment into their intercourse ; for Carry was irritated and 
wounded beyond measure by the consciousness of her mother’s disapproval. 
She, of whom Torrance had declared, in his brutal way, that she was too 
proud to go \n'ong, was incapable, indeed, even of conceiving the possibility 
that “ going wrong ” should be in any one’s thought of her. In her own mind 
the fervor with which she had turned back to the love of her life, the eager- 
ness with which, at the very earliest moment, she had sought his pardon, 
were the only compensations she could give him for the falsehood into which 
she had been forced and the sufferings that had been inflicted upon him. 
How could she pretend to build a wall of false delicacy around herself and 
keep him at a distance, while her heart was solely bent upon making up to 
him for what he had suffered, and conscious of no sentiment but an over- 
whelming desire for his presence and society ? That she should be obliged 
to enjoy this society almost by stealth, and that her mother — even her mother 
— should object and remonstrate, gave Carry the keen and sharp offence with 
which a delicate mind always resents a false interpretation of its honest mean- 
ing. It seemed to her that her first duty now was to be true — always true. 


THE LADIES LTNDORES, 


379 


She had been false with horrible consequences : to conceal now the eager 
bound of her heart toward her true lover would be a lie — especially to him who 
had suffered, as she also had suffered, from the lies of her life. But Lord 
Lindores, when lie made up his mind tliat Carry must be brought to her 
senses, was in no w^ay aware how difficult the position was, and how far those 
senses had gone astray. 

He had taken a considerable round to think over the subject, so that it 
was getting toward evening when he rode up the long avenue to Tinto — so 
late that the workmen wLom Carry employed in the changes she was making 
were leaving their work when Lord Lindores went into the house and made 
his way toward Carry’s sitting-room. He sent away the butler, who, witli 
an air of alarm and surprise, started out of the partial twilight to conduct 
him to his daughter. It was, he felt, something of a reproach to him that 
the man looked so much startled. The room was not lighted, save by tlie 
glow of a large fire, when Lord Lindores opened the door, after a knock to 
which no answer was returned. There was a sound of several voices, and he 
was surprised to see the tall figure of a man standing against the firelight. 
Who was the man who was visiting Carry ? It was not Rintoul, nor any 
one else he knew in the neighborhood. Nobody about w as so tall, so slight, 
though there was something in the outline of his figure that was familiar to him. 
But there was an agitated conversation going on, which made the speakers, 
scarcely distinguishable in the twilight, unconscious of the knock of the new- 
comer or his entrance. To his surprise, it w'as his wife’s voice which he 
heard first, saying, tremulously, “ Mr. Beaufort, I can do nothing but return 
to what I said before. Qui. s' excuse^ s'* accuse. You may have the very best 
of reasons, but it is an injury to Carry that you should stay here.” 

“ An injury to me ! How can it be aii injury to me ? It is my only con- 
solation, it is the only help I have. I have told you from the first, mamma, 
Edward has been wronged, only not so cruelly wronged as I w'as myself — oh, 
nobody could be that 1 And now that we can make it up to each other — 
and learn to forget it — you would chase him away a second time — for 
what? because of what people — the world — those who know nothing about 
us — may say I ” * 

Carry was standing by tlie mantel-piece, her tall figure, in its black, cling- 
ing dress, scarcely distinguishable at first; but the animation with w'hich she 
spoke, and the natural eloquence of her gestures, brought it out against the 
w'hite marble. Then there came Beaufort’s deeper voice : “You know. Lady 
Lindores, I am ready to do whatever is best for her. If I can comfort her, 
after all that has happened to her, how can I go away ? I wish to do only 
what is best for her.” 

“ I beg to remark,” said Lord Lindores, coming forward, ‘‘ that I knocked 
before coming in. This, I suppose, is why your servant looked alarmed when 
he admitted me. Is this gentleman, may I ask, living here ? ” 

Carry drew back at the sound of his voice as if she had received a blow. 
She clung to the edge of the tall white mantel-piece, shrinking, her figure, 
drawn together, an impersonation of terror and trouble. Beaufort started 
too, but slightly, and stood instinctively out of the way to make room for 
the new-comer. Lord Lindores went straight forward to the fire and took 
up his position with his back to it, with a certain straightforward ease and 
authority, like a man in his own house, who has no doubt of his right to do 
his pleasure there. But, as a matter of fact, he was by no means so certain 
as he looked. 

“ \Ye did not hear you,” said Carry, with a breathless gasp in her voice. 
“We were talking — over points on which my mother does not agree with me.” 


3^0 


THE LADIES LIND ORES, 


“I can easily imagine that,” he replied. 

And then there was a dreadful pause. Lady Lindores, on the other side 
of the fire, did not move or speak. It was the crisis of Carry’s fate, and, 
except in defence or help of her child, the mother vowed to herself that she 
would take no part. It was hard, but it was best for Carry. Whatever was 
going to happen to her, she must decide for herself now. 

“ I asked,” said Lord Lindores, in that calm, clear, collected voice w'hich 
was so strange a contrast to the agitation of the others, “whether this gentle- 
man is living here? If so, it is very inappropriate and unsuitable. Your 
mother would prefer, I am sure, if Mr. Beaufort is here about any business, 
to offer him a bed at Lindores.” 

There was a universal holding of the breath at this extraordinary propo- 
sition. Had he burst into all the violence of passion they would have been 
prepared, but not for this politeness and calm. 

“I am not living here. Lord Lindores,” said Beaufort, with some con- 
fusion. “I am on my way from the north. I could not resist the temp- 
tation of staying for an hour or two, on my way, to inquire ” 

“That was very kind,” he said; “and kindness which interferes with 
personal comfort is very rare. If you are going to Edinburgh, you must 
remember you have two ferries to cross.” 

“Probably,” Beaufort cried, faltering a little, “I shall stay all night in 
Dunearn. Lady Caroline — had some commissions for me.” 

“You had much better come to Lindores. Commissions, Carry ! I sup- 
pose Mr. Beaufort is acting as a sort of agent for you in your new arrange- 
ments? Is it bric-df-brac ? You young men are all learned in that.” 

Nobody made any reply, but the very air seemed to tingle with the 
extraordinary tumult of feeling. To accept Beaufort as an ordinary caller, 
and to invite him to Lindores, was a master-stroke. But the two people 
between whom he stood were so surcharged with passionate feeling that any 
touch must produce an explosion of one sort or another. This touch was 
given inadvertently by Lady Lindores, who — terribly bewildered by the course 
that things were taking, but feeling that, if Beaufort could be induced to go 
to Lindores, it would cut the thread better than any other expedient — rose 
softly out of the twilight, and, coming forward to him, laid her hand upon 
his arm. “ Yes, yes, that is much the best. Come to Lindores,” she said. 

At which Carry lost the control of herself which people in their ordinary 
senses have. Between panic and passion she was beside herself. Fear has a 
wild temerity which goes far beyond courage — her tall, straight figure seemed 
to fling suddenly out of the shade and launch itself upon this milder group. 
She put Lady Lindores away with a vehement gesture. “ Mother ! ” she 
cried, “ do not you meddle. Edward ! do not go — do not go, it is a trap, it 
is a snare. If you go it will all be over — all over ! ” Her voice rose almost 
to a scream. She had reached the point at which reason has no longer any 
hold, and all the reticence and modesty of nature yields to the wild excitement 
of terror. She was trembling all over, yet capable of any supreme effort of 
desperation — ready to defend to the last, against the same powers that had 
crushed her before, her last hope. 

“ Carry,” said Lord Lindores — he kept up, at incalculable cost to himself, 
his tone of conciliation — “ I do not understand what you fear. Is it I that 
am to lay traps or snares? I forgive you, my poor child; but this is a 
strange way to talk to Mr. Beaufort — he cannot stay here ” 

“ I have no intention of staying here. Lord Lindores,” said Beaufort, 
hastily. “You may be sure I will not expose her to any comment.” 

“ I am very sure, nevertheless, that you are doing so,” said Lord Lindores. 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


381 

The contrast of this brief dialogue with Carry’s impassioned tones was ex- 
traordinary. She felt it through the haze of excitement that surrounded her, 
though her intelligence of all outside matters was blurred by the wild strain of 
her own feeling, which would have utterance. “ Father,” she said, hoarsely, 
putting her hand on his arm, “go away from us ; do not interfere. You 
know what you made of me when 1 was in your hands. Oh, let us alone 
now ! I am not a girl — I am a woman. I am the same as you, knowing 
good and evil. Oh ! ” she said, suddenly, “if you want to keep any respect 
for me, go away, go away, for I don’t know what I am saying. My head is 
turning round. Mother — Edward ! don’t you see that I am losing my rea- 
son? Oh, don’t let him interfere. Let him go away !” 

Lady Lindores caught her daughter in her arms, in a trembling effort 
to control and calm her. “Carry, my dearest ! you will be sorry after- 
ward ” 

“ Oh yes, I shall be sorry,” cried poor Lady Car, drawing herself out of 
her mother’s hold — “sorry to have been unkind, sorry to have betrayed my- 
self ; but I must, I must. I cannot hold my peace. Oh, father, let me 
alone ! What good will that do you to make me wretched ? What good 
has it done you ? Nothing, nothing ! I might have been poor and happy, 
instead of all I have come through ; and what difference would it have made 
to you? You have killed me once; but oh, think how cruel, how tyran- 
nous, if you tried to kill me again ! And you see nobody speaks for me ; I am 
alone to defend myself, f’ather, you shall not interfere again ! ” 

She had resumed her hold on his arm, grasping it half to support herself, 
half to enforce what she was saying. He now put his hand upon hers and 
detached it gently, still keeping down his anger, retaining his tone of calm. 
“ My poor child, you are overdone; let your mother take care of you,” he 
said, compassionately. “ Mr. Beaufort, we are both out of place here at this 
moment. Lady Caroline has had a great deal to try her ; we had better 
leave her with her mother.” Nobody could be more reasonable, more tem- 
perate. His compassionate voice and gentle action, and the way in which 
he seemed about to sweep away with him the somewhat irresolute figure of 
the man whn had no right to be there, filled Carry with a wild pang. It 
seemed to her that, notwithstanding all her protest and passion, he was about 
to be victorious once more, and to rob her of all life and hope again. She 
stretched out her arms wildly, with a cry of anguish — “Edward, are you 
going to forsake me too ? ” 

Edward Beaufort was very pertinacious in his love, very faithful, poeti- 
cally tender and true ; but he was not strong in an emergency, and the calm- 
ness and friendliness of Lord Lindores’s address deceived him. He cried, 
“Never !” with the warmest devotion ; but then he changed his tone a lit- 
tle: “Lord Lindores is, perhaps, right — for the moment. I must not — 
bring ill-natured remark ” 

Lady Car burst into a little wild laugh. “You have no courage — you 
either,” she said, “even you! It is only I, a poor coward, that am not 
afraid. It is not natural to me, everybody knows ; but when a soul is in de- 
spair — Then just see hoiv bold I am,” she cried, suddenly, “ father and 
mother ! If there is any holding back, it is his, not mine. I have been 
ready — ready from the first, as I am now. I care nothing about remark or 
what anybody says. I will hear no reason ; I will have no interference. Do 
you hear me, all ? Do you hear what I say ? ” 

“ I hear — what I am very sorry to hear. Carry — what you cannot mean. 
Mr. Beaufort is too much a gentleman to take advantage of this wild talk, 
which is mere excitement and over-strained feeling.” 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


82 


She laughed again — that laugh which is no laugh, but an expression of all 
that is inarticulate in the highest excitement. “ I am ready — to fulfil our old 
engagement — our old, old broken engagement — that we made before God 
and heaven. “ I have been like Dante,” she said. “I have lost my way, 
and made that dreadful round before I could find it, through hell and purga- 
tory ; yes, that is it — through hell — And now, whenever Edward pleases. 
It is not I that am holding back. Yes, go, go ! ” she said. “ Oh, though I 
love you, you are not like me ; you have not suffered like me ! Go, but 
don’t go with my father. He will find some way of putting everything wrong 
again.” 

The two gentlemen walked solemnly, one behind the other, to the door. 
On the threshold Lord Lind ores paused. “ I don’t suppose you will suspect 
me of any designs upon your life,” he said, with a bitter smile, “ if I repeat 
that you will be welcome at Lindores.” 

“I had made all my arrangements,” said Beaufort, with some confusion, 
“atDunearn.” 

Lord Lindores paused for a moment before mounting his horse. ‘‘All 
that she has been saying is folly,” he said. “ You may be certain that it will 
not be permitted ” 

“ Who is to stop it ? I don’t think, if we are agreed, any one has the 
power.” 

“ It will not be permitted. It would be disgraceful to you. It would be 
a step that no gentleman could take. A foolish young woman, hysterical 
with excitement and exhaustion and grief-^ — 

“ Lord Lindores, you forget what that young woman has been to me — 
ever since I have known her. I have never wavered ” 

“ Then you have committed a sin,” the earl said. He stood there dis- 
comfited, in the darkness of the night, scarcely remembering the servants, 
who were within hearing — not knowing what farther step to take. He raised 
liis foot to put it in the stirrup, then turned back again. “If you will not 
come with me, wdiere we could talk this out at our leisure, at least you will 
go away from here,” he said. Beaufort did not reply in words, but hastened 
away, disappearing in the gloom of the avenue. Lord Lindores mounted his 
horse, and followed slowly, in a tumult of thought. He had not been pre- 
pared for it ; he was unable now to realize the power of wild and impassioned 
resistance which was in Carry. He w^aS giddy with astonishment, as if his 
horse or his dog had turned round upon him and defied him. But he tried 
to shake off the impression as he got farther from Tinto. It was impossible ; 
it was a mere bravado. She would no more hold to it than — And since 
there was delicacy, decorum, propriety — every reason that could be thought 
of — on the other side — no, no ! He would forgive poor Carry’s passion, fur 
she could no' more hold to it — Even her mother, who had been so difficult 
to manage before — her mother w^ould fully support him now. He tried to 
console himself with these thoughts ; but yet Lord Lindores rode home a 
broken man. 

Lady Lindores sat and cried by the fire, while Carry swept about the 
room in her passion, crossing and re-crossing the firelight. The servants at 
I'into were more judicious than those at Lindores. They were accustomed 
to scenes in the drawing-room, and to know that it was indiscreet to carry 
lights thither until they were called for. In the late Tinto’s time the lamps, 
when they were carried in abruptly, had lit up many an episode of trouble — 
the fierce redness of the master’s countenance, the redness, so different, of his 
wife’s eyes. So that no one interrupted the lingering hour of twilight. 
Lady Lindores sat like any of the poor women in the cottages, unable to 


THE LADIES LIHDORES. 


383 


Stand against the passion of her child. How familiar is the scene ! — the 
mother crying by the fireside, descended from her dignity and power to sway 
(if she ever possessed any) to sheer helplessness and pathetic spectatorship, 
unable, with all the experience and gathered wisdom of her years, to suggest 
anything or do anything for the headstrong life and passion of the other wo- 
man, who could learn only by experience, as her mother did before her. 
Carry paced up and down the room from end to end ; even the shadowy lines 
of her figure, even her step, revealed the commotion of her soul. When she 
came full into the firelight she stood still for a moment, her hands clasped, 
her head thrown back, confronting the dim image of herself in the great mir- 
ror against a ruddy background of gloom. And Carry in her passion was 
not without enlightenment too. 

“No,” she said, passionately, “no, no! Do you know why I am so 
determined ? It is because I am frightened to death. Oh, don’t take an 
advantage of what I am saying to you 1 How do I know what my father 
might do this time ? No, no I I must keep out of his hands. I will rather 
die !” 

“ Carry, I will not interfere. What can I do between you ? But these 
are not all conventionalities, as you think — there is more in them.” 

“ There is this in them,” she said, with a strange, pathetic smile — 
“that Edward thinks so too. He is not ready, like me, to throw away 
everything. He might be persuaded, perhaps, if my father put forth all his 
powers, to abandon me, to think it was for my interest ” 

“Carry, I do not wish to support you in your wild projects, but I think 
you are doing Edward injustice.” 

“Thank you, mother dear; your voice is so sweet ! ” she said, with a 
sudden softening. “Why should you cry? It is all a black sea round 
about me on every side. I have only one thing to cling to, only one thing ; 
and — how can I tell ? — perhaps that may fail me too. But you have nothing 
to cry for. Your way is all clear and straight before you till it ends in 
heaven. Let them talk as they like, there must be heaven for you. You 
will sit there and wait and watch to see all the broken boats come home — 
some bottom upward, and every one drowned ; some lashed to one miserable 
bit of a mast — like me.” 

“Carry,” said Lady Lindores, “if that is the case — if you do not feel 
sure — why, in spite of everything — father and mother, and modesty and 
reverence, and all that is most necessary to life, your own good name, and 
perhaps the future welfare of your children— why will you cling to Edward 
Beaufort? You wronged him, perhaps, but he did nothing to stop it. 
There were things he might have done ; he ought to have been ready to 
claim you before — to oppose your ” 

Carry threw herself at her mother’s feet, and laid her trembling hand 
upon her lips. “ Not a word, not a word ! ” she cried. “ Do you think he 
would wrong my childr 1 ? Oh, no, no ! that is impossible. His fault it is 
to be too good. And 1 f he did nothing, what could he do ? He has never 
had the ground to stand on, nor opportunity, nor time. Thank God, they 
will be his now ; he will prove what is in him now.” 

Which was it that in her heart she believed ? But Lady Lindores could 
not tell. Carry, when she calmed down, sat at her mother’s feet in the 
firelight, and clasped her close, and poured out her heart, no longer in fiery 
opposition and passion, but with a sudden change and softening, in all the 
pathos of trouble past and hope returned. They cried together, and talked 
and kissed each other, once more mother and child, admitting no other 
thought. This sudden change went to the heart of Lady Lindores. Her 


3^4 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


daughter’s head upon her bosom, her arm holding her close, what could she 
do but kiss her and console her, and forget everything in sympathy ? But as 
she drove home in the dark other fears came in. Only one thing to cling to 
— and perhaps that might fail her — “one miserable bit of a mast.” What 
did she mean ? What did Carry believe ? that her old love would renew for 
her all the happiness of life, as she had been saying, whispering, with her 
cheek close to her mother’s, that the one dream of humanity — the romance 
which is never worn out, and never departs — was now to be fulfilled for her? 
or that even into this dream the canker had entered — the sense that happiness 
was not, and never could be ? 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

When a pair of lovers are finally delivered from all those terrible obstacles 
that fret the current of true love, and are at last married and settled, what 
more is there to be said about them ? One phase of life is happily termin- 
ated — the chapter which human instinct has chosen as the subject of romance, 
the one in which all classes are interested — those to whom it is still in the 
future, with all the happy interest of happiness to come ; those to whom it is 
in the past, with perhaps a sigh, perhaps a smile of compassion, a softening 
recollection, even when their hopes have not been fulfilled of what was and 
what might have been. The happiness and miseries of that early struggle — 
how they dwindle in importance as we get older ! how little we think now of 
the crisis which seemed final then — things for which heavep and earth stood 
still ! Yet there will never come a time in which human interest will fall 
away from the perennial story, continually going on, ever changing, yet ever 
the same. 

Before proceeding to the knotting up of other threads, we must first re- 
count here what happened to Lord Millefleurs. He did not take any imme- 
diate steps in respect to Miss Nelly Field. They corresponded largely and 
fully at all times, and he told her of the little incident respecting Edith Lin- 
dores, in full confidence of her sympathy and approval. Perhaps he gave the 
episode a turn of a slightly modified kind, representing that his proposal was 
rather a matter of politeness than of passion, and that it was a relief to both 
parties when it was discovered that Edith, as well as himself, considered fra- 
ternal much better than matrimonial relations. 

Miss Nelly’s reply to this was very uncompromising. She said, I think 
you have behaved like a couple of fools. You ought to have married. You 
can tell her from me that she would have found you very nice, though your 
height may leave something to be desired. I don’t myself care for girls ; 
they are generally stupid; but it would have been exceedingly suitable, and 
pleased your parents — a duty which I wish I saw you more concerned about.” 

Lord Millefleurs, in his reply, acknowledged the weight and sense, “as 
always,” of his correspondent’s opinion. “I told dear Edith at once what 
you said ; but it did not, perhaps, make so much impression on her as it 
would otherwise have done, since she has got engaged to John Erskine, a 
country gentleman in the neighborhood, which did not please her parents 
half so well as a certain other union would have done. Pleasing one’s par- 
ents, after all, though it is a duty, is not paramount to all other considera- 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 385 

tions. Besides, I have never thought it was a commandment to which great 
attention was paid c/iez vottsT 

Miss Field’s reply was still more succinct and decided : “I don’t know 
what you mean by cJiez moi. I hate French phrases when simple American 
will do as well. If you think we don’t love our fathers and mothers, it just 
shows how far popular fallacy can go, and how easily you bigoted Englishmen 
are taken in. Who was it that first opened your eyes to the necessity of con- 
sidering your mother’s feelings ? ” 

Peace was established after this, but, on the whole. Lord Millefleurs de- 
cided to await the progress of circumstances, and riot startle and horrify those 
parents whom Miss Nelly was so urgent he should please. Some time after 
she informed him that she was coming to Europe, in charge of a beautiful 
young niece, who would have a large fortune. “ Money makes a great deal 
of difference in the wa)p in which dukes and duchesses consider matters,” 
she wrote, enigmatically ; ‘‘and, so far as I can make out from your papers 
and novels (if there is any faith to be put in them), American girls are the 
fashion. ” 

Lord Millefleurs informed his mother of this approaching arrival, and with 
some difficulty procured from her an invitation to Ess Castle for his Trans- 
atlantic friends. 

“ I wish there was not that girl, though,” her grace said ; but Lady Re- 
seda, for her part, was delighted. 

“ She will go to Paris first, and bring the very newest fashions !” that 
young lady cried. 

The ducal mansion was a little excited by the anticipation. They looked 
for a lovely creature, dressed to just a little more than perfection, who would 
come to breakfast in a diamond necklace, and amuse them more than anybody 
had amused them in the memory of man. And they were not disappointed 
in this hope. Miss Nellie F. Peters was a charming little creature, and her 
“things ’’were divine. Lady Reseda thought her very like Daisy Miller; 
and the duchess allowed, with a sigh, that American girls were the fashion, 
and that if Millefleurs would have something out of the way 

But in the mean while Millefleurs left this lovely little impersonation of 
Freedom to his mother and sister, and walked about with her aunt. Miss 
Nelly was about eight or nine and thirty — an age at which women have not 
ceased to be pleasant, when they choose, to the eye as well as to the heart. 
But the uncompromising character of her advice was nothing to that of her 
toilet and appearance. She wore short skirts, in which she could move about 
freely, when everybody else had them long. She wore a bonnet, when every- 
body else had a hat. Her hair was thin, but she was scrupulous never to add 
a tress or even a cushion. She was not exactly plain, for her features were 
good and her eyes full of in-telligence ; but as for complexion, she had none, 
and no figure to speak of. She assumed the entire spiritual charge of Mille- 
fleurs from the moment they met, and he was never absent from her side a 
moment longer than he could help. 

It amused the family beyond measure, at first almost more than Nellie. 
But by-and-by the smile began to be forced, and confusion to take the part 
of hilarity. It was Miss Nelly Field herself at last who took the bull by the 
horns, if that is not too profane a simile. She took the duke apart one fine 
evening, when the wEole party had strolled out upon the lawm after dinner. 
“Your son,” she said. “ is tormenting me to marry him and she fixed upon 
the duke her intelligent eyes. 

His grace was confounded, as may be supposed. Pie stood aghast at this 
middle-aged woman, with her Transatlantic accent and air. He did not 

17 


386 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


want to be uncivil. “You ! ” he said, in consternation, then blushed for his 
bad manners, and added, suavely, “ I beg you a thousand pardons — you mean 
— your niece.” That of itself would be bad enough. 

“ No,’^ said Miss Nelly, with an air of regret, “ it does not concern Nel- 
lie. I have told him that v^ould be more reasonable. Nellie is very pretty, 
and has a quantity of money, but he doesn’t seem to see it. Perhaps you 
don’t know that this was what he wanted when I sent him home to his moth- 
er? I thought he would have got over it when he came home. I consider 
him quite unsuitable for me, but I am a little uneasy about the moral conse- 
quences. I am thirty-eight, and I have a moderate competency — not a for- 
tune, like Nellie. I thought it better to talk it over with you before it went 
any farther,” Miss Nelly said. 

And when he took this middle-aged and plain-spoken bride to Dalrulzian 
to visit the young people there, Millefleurs did noi attempt to conceal his 
consciousness of the objections which his friends would, no doubt, make. “ I 
told you it was perfectly unsuitable,” he said, turning up his little eyes and 
clasping his plump hands. “We were both perfectly aware of that ; but it 
is chic^ don’t you know, if you will allow me to use a vulgar word.” 

Edith clasped the arm of John when the Marquis and the Marchioness of 
Millefleurs had retired, and these two young people indulged in subdued bursts 
of laughter. They stepped out upon the terrace-walk to laugh, that they 
might not be heard, feeling the delightful contrast of their own well-assorted 
youth and illimitable happiness. The most delightful vanity mingled with 
their mirth — that vanity in each other which feels like a virtue. It was 
summer, and the air was soft, the moon shining full over the far sweep of the 
undulating country, blending with a silvery remnant of daylight which lingered 
far into the night. The hills in the far distance shone against the lightness 
of the horizon, and the crest of fir-trees on Dalrulzian hill stood out against 
the sky, every twig distinct. It was such a night as the lovers babbled of on 
that bank on which the moonbeams lay at Belmont, but more spiritual than 
any Italian night, because of that soft, heavenly lingering of the day which 
belongs to the North. 

This young pair had not been married very long, and had not ceased to 
think their happine.ss the chief and most reasonable subject of interest to all 
around them. They were still comparing themselves with everything in earth 
and almost in heaven, to the advantage of their own blessedness. They were 
amused beyond description by the noble couple who had come to visit them. 

“ Confess, now, that you feel a pang of regret,” John said; and they stood 
closer and closer together, and laughed under their breath, as at the most de- 
lightful joke in the world. 

Up-stairs the marchioness shut the window, remarking that the air was 
very cold. “ What a fool that little thing was not to have you ! ” she said ; 
'•* you would have done very well together.” 

“ Dear Edith !” said Millefleurs, folding his hands. “ It is very pretty, 
don’t you know, to see her so happy.” 

The observations made down-stairs upon the actors in this little drama 
were very free, as was natural. Rolls himself, who had held a more impor- 
tant r6le than any one knew, was, perhaps, apt to exaggerate the greatness of 
his own part, but with an amiable and benevolent effect. His master, indeed, 
he looked upon with benevolent indulgence, as knowing no more than a child 
of the chief incident. If Rolls had not been already bound to the house of 
Dalrulzian by life-long fidelity, and by that identification of himself and all 
his interests, his pride and self-regard, with his “ family,” which is something 
even more tenacious and real than faithfulness, he would have been made so 


THE LADIES LIND ORES. 


387 


by the fact that John, without in the slightest degree realizing that Rolls w^as 
suffering for him, had given orders to Mr. Monypenny to secure the most ex- 
pensive assistance for his trial. 

The pride, contempt, satire, and keen suppressed emotion with which this 
act filled the old servant’s bosom w'ere beyond description. It was just 
downright extravagance,” he said to Bauby. “ They’re a’ fuils, thae Ers- 
kines, frae father to son. Laying out all that siller upon me, and no a glim- 
mer o’ insight a’ the time ! And he had had the sense to see, it would have 
been natural ; but how could he see my meaning when there was no con- 
science in himsel’, and giving out his money all the same as if notes were 
things ye could gather on the roadside ? ” 

He mightna understand ye, Tammas, but he ken’t your meaning was 
good,” said Bauby. Their position was changed by all the changes that had 
happened, to the increase of their grandeur if not of their happiness. 

Rolls had now a tall and respectful youth under his orders, and Bauby 
was relieved, in so far as she would allow herself to be relieved, of the duties 
of the kitchen. It was gratifying to their pride ; but there is little doubt 
that they sighed occasionally for the freedom of the time when Rolls was 
alone in his glory, dictator of the feminine household, and Bauby’s highest ef- 
fort of toilet was to tie a clean apron round her ample waist. She had to 
wear a silk gown now, and endeavor to be happy in it. Rolls’s importance, 
however, was now publicly acknowledged, both out-of-doors and in. He was 
looked upon with a kind of admiring awe by the population generally, as a 
man who had been, as it were, like Dante, in hell, and came out unsinged, or 
in prison — which was nearly as bad — issuing forth in a sort of halo of inno- 
cence and suffering. 

It might have been possible that John Erskine, or any of the gentlemen 
of the countryside, had quarrelled with Tinto and meant mischief ; but Rolls 
could not have meant anything. The very moment that the eyes of the rural 
world were directed to him it was established that accident only could be the 
cause of death, and evei*ybody felt it necessary to testify their sympathy to 
the unwilling instrument of such an event. The greatest people in the county 
would stop to speak to him when occasion offered, to show him that they 
thought no worse of him. Even Lord Lindores would do this ; but there was 
one exception. Rintoul was the one man who had never offered any sym- 
pathy. He turned his head the other way when Rolls approached him — would 
not look at him when they were, perforce, brought into contact ; while Rolls, 
for his part, regarded Lord Rintoul with a cool and cynical air of observation 
thaj was infinitely galling to the subject of it. “Yon Lord !” he ejaculated, 
when he spoke of him, contemptuous, with a scoff always in his tone. And 
Rolls had grown to be a great authority in legal matters — the only person in 
the neighborhood, as was supposed, that knew the mysteries of judicial pro- 
cedure. But his elevation, as we have said, was modified by domestic draw- 
backs. Instead of giving forth his sentiments in native freedom, as he went 
and came with the dishes direct from one table to another, it was necessary to 
wait until the other servants of the household were disposed of before the 
butler and the housekeeper could express confidentially their feelings to each 
other. And Bauby, seated in her silk gown, doing the honors to the mar- 
quis's man (of whom she stood in great awe) and the marchioness’s woman 
(whom she thought a cutty”), was not half so happy as Bauby, glowing and 
proud in the praises of a successful dinner, with her clean white apron folded 
over her arms. 

“ This is the lord that my leddy would have been married upon had all 


388 


THE LADIES LINDORES, 


gone as was intended,” Rolls said. “ He’s my Lord Marquis at present, and 
will be my Lord Duke in time.” 

“ Such a bit creature for a’ thae grand titles ! ” said Bauby, yawning freely 
over the stocking which she was supposed to be knitting. “Eh, Tammas, 
my man, do ye hear that clatter ? We’ll no have an ashet left in the house.” 

“It’s a peety she didna take him ; it would have pleased a’ pairties,” said 
Rolls. “I had other views mysel’, as it is well known, for our maister here, 
poor lad ! Woman, cannot ye bide still when a person is speaking to ye ? 
The ashets are no your concern.” 

“ Eh, and wha’s concern should they be? ” cried Bauby. “ Would I let 
the family suffer and me sit still ? My lady’s just a sweet young thing, and 
I’m more fond of her every day. She may not just be very clever about 
ordering the dinner, but what does that maitter as lang as I’m to the fore ? 
And she’s an awfu’ comfort to my mind in respect to Mr. John. It takes off 
the responsibility. Me that was always thinking what would I say to his 
mammaw ! ” 

“I have nothing to say against my lady,” said Rolls, “but just that I had 
ither views. It’s a credit to the house that she should have i>efused a grand 
match for our sake. But it will be a fine ploy for an observer like me, that 
kens human nature, to see them a’ bout my table at their dinner the morn. 
There will be the earl himself, just girning with spite and politeness, and 
her, that would have been my ain choice, maybe beginning to see, poor thing ! 
the mistake she’s made. Poor thing ! Marriages, in my opinion, is what most 
shakes your faith in Providence. It’s just the devil that’s at the bottom o’ 
them, so far as I can see.” 

“ Ploot, Tammas ! it’s true love that’s at the bottom o’ them,” Bauby 
said. 

■ ‘ Love ! ” Rolls cried, with contempt ; and then he added, with a grin of 
malice, “I’m awfu’ entertained to yon lord at our table-end. He will 
not look the side I’m on. It’s like poison to him to hear my voice. And I 
take great pains to serve him mysel’,” he said, with a chuckle. “I’m just 
extraordinar attentive to him. There’s no person that I take half as much 
charge of. I’m thinking his dinner will choke him some day, for he canna 
bide the sight of me.” 

“ Him that should go upon his knees to ye every day of his life ! ” cried 
Bauby, indignant. 

“We’ll say no-thing about that; but I get my diversion out o’ him,” 
said Rolls, grimly, “ though he’s a lord, and I’m but a common man.” 

• 

The marriage of Lady Car took place a little more than a year after Tor- 
rance’s death. It was accomplished in London, whither she had gone some 
time before, with scarcely any one to witness the ceremony but her mother. 
She preferred it so. She was happy and she was miserable, with the strang- 
est mingling of emotions. Lady Lindores made vain efforts to penetrate into 
the mind which was no longer open to her as her own. Carry had gone far 
away from her mother, who knew none of the passions which had swept her 
soul, yet could divine that the love in which she was so absorbed, the post- 
poned and interrupted happiness which seemed at last to be within her grasp, 
was not like the love and happiness that might have been. When Beaufort 
was not with her her pale countenance — that thoughtful face, with its air of 
distmetion and sensitive delicacy, which had never been beautiful — would fall 
into a wan shadow and fixedness which were wonderful to see. When he 
was with her it lighted up with gleams of ineffable feeling, yet would waver 
and change like a stormy sky, sometimes with a wistful, questioning glance. 


THE LADIES LINDORES. 


389 


which gave it to Lady Lindores all the interest of a poem, united to the far 
deeper, trembling interest of observation with which a mother watches her 
child on the brink of new possibilities. Were they for good or evil? Was 
it a life of hope fulfilled, or of ever-increasing and deepening disappointment, 
which lay before Carry’s tremulous feet ? They were not the assured feet of 
a believing and confident bride. 

What is love without faith and confidence and trust ? It is the strangest, 
the saddest, the most terrible, the most divine of human passions. It is sel- 
dom that a woman begins with such enlightenment in her eyes. Usually it is 
the growth of slow and much-resisted experience, the growing revelation of 
years. How sweet, how heavenly, how delightful, when Love is blind ! 
How wise the ancients were to make him a child — a thing of caprice and 
sweet confusion, taking everything for granted ! But this to Carry was im- 
possible. When her mother took her into her arms on her wedding morn- 
ing, dressed in the soft gray gown which was the substitute for bridal white, 
they kissed each other with a certain solemnity. At such a moment so much 
is divined between kindred hearts which words can never say ! “I want you 
to remember,” said Carry, mother dear, that, whatever comes of it, this is 
what is best.” 

“ I hope all that is most happy will come of it, my darling,” said Lady 
Lindores. 

“And I, too — and I, too — ” She paused, raising a little her slender 
throat, her face, that was like a wistful, pale sky, clear-shining after the rain. 
“ But, let it be what it may, it is the only good — the only way for me.” 

These were the sole words explanatory that passed between them. Lady 
Lindores parted with the bridal pair afterward with an anxious heart. She 
went home that night, travelling far in the dark through the unseen country, 
feeling the unknown all about her. Life had not been perfect to her, any 
more than to others. She had known many disappointments and seen 
through many illusions 5 but she had preserved through all the sweetness of a 
heart that can be deceived, that can forget to-day’s griefs, and hope again in 
to-morrow as if to-day had never been. As she drew near her home her 
heart lightened without any reason at all. Her husband was not a perfect 
mate for her — her son had failed to her hopes. But she did not dwell on 
these disenchantments. After all, how dear they were ! after all, there was 
to-moiTow to come, which perhaps — most likely — would yet be the perfect 
day. 


f 


THE END. 



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